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HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  S.  C  O 


MARMION 


BY 


SIR  WALTER   SCOTT,  BART. 


W/  TH  ILL  US TKA  TIONS 


BOSTON    AND    NEW  YORK 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND   COMPANY 

Cbc  if^iticrsitrc  J^rcss,  (JTambritigc 

1894 


Copyright,  1SS4  and  1SS3, 
By  James  R.  Osgood  and  Company. 


All  rights  reserved. 


^^TH^5 


TO 

The  Right  Honorable 
HENRY,    LORD    MONTAGUE, 

ETC.,    ETC.,   ETC., 

2Cf}is  l^omancr  is  Ensrrtbcti 

BY    THE    AUTHOR. 


AMERICAN   PUBLISHERS'   PREFACE. 


The  text  of  tins  edition  is  the  same  as  that 
of  the  Illustrated  Students'  Edition,  prepared  by 
Mr.  W.  J.  Rolfe.  The  following  extracts  from 
Mr.  Rolfe-'s  preface  serve  to  show  the  care  he  has 
used  and  the  need  that  existed  for  revision:  — 

"  In  tlie  preface  to  The  Lady  of  the  Lake  I  said  that 
the  poem  had  not  been  printed  correctly  for  more  than 
fifty  years.  Marmion,  so  far  as  I  can  learn,  has  7iever 
been  printed  correctly.  Scott  appears  to  have  overlooked 
sundry  bad  misprints  in  the  first  edition  (which  I  have 
compared  minutely  with  the  fourth  and  all  the  more 
recent  editions,  English  and  American,  that  I  could  get 


10  AMERICAN  PUBLISHERS'  PREFACE. 

hold  of) ;  and  these  errors  of  the  type  have  been  pei-pet- 
uated  until  now.  Lockhart  professes  to  have  revised  the 
text  carefully,  Avith  the  aid  of  the  author's  interleaved 
copy  of  the  edition  of  1830  ;  and  we  must  give  him 
credit  for  restoring  one  line  (v.  947)  accidentally  omitted 
in  the  early  editions,  and  for  incorporating  one  or  two 
trifling  changes  (as  Badenoch-man  for  Hlghlandman  in  vi. 
795)  made  by  Scott  in  1830  ;  but  he  has  not  corrected 
a  single  one  of  the  old  misprints,  while  he  has  over- 
looked a  number  of  new  ones  due  to  his  own  printers. 
On  the  whole,  he  has  marred  the  text  far  more  than 
he  has  mended  it. 

"  As  a  sample  of  the  corruptions  that  date  from  the 
first  publication  of  the  poem,  see  the  opening  of  Canto 
II.,  where  the  printer  put  a  period  in  place  of  the 
comma  Scott  undoubtedly  meant  to  have  at  the  end 
of  the  5th  line.  He  did  not  detect  the  error,  and, 
so.  far  as  I  am  aware,  it  has  been  repeated  in  every 
edition  except  this  of  mine.  As  the  reader  will  see,  it 
alters  the  construction,  and  makes  nonsense  of  the 
passage.      Again,   in    ii.    017,    the    first    edition   has    a 


AMERICAN  PUBLISriERS'    PREFACE.         11 

period  instead  of  a  comma  at  the  end  of  the  line, 
spoiling  the  gruinnuir  and  the  sense ;  and  the  period 
(or  the  colon,  which  is  equally  bad)  has  been  retained 
from  that  day  to  this. 

"  Of  corruptions  that  appear  (so  far,  at  least,  as  my 
collation  of  the  texts  enables  me  to  decide )  for  the 
first  time  in  Lockhart's  edition,  I  may  mention  ii.  4G4, 
where  Scott  wrote  and  printed  '  They  knew  not  how, 
and  knew  not  where,'  while  Lockhart  reads  '  )iO)-  knew 
not  where.'  Scott  is  free  in  his  use  of  archaic  words 
and  constructions,  but  I  recall  no  instance  in  which 
he  has  indulged  in  this  old  '  double  negative.'  Again, 
in  V.  212,  Scott's  '  For  royal  tvere  his  garb  and  mien' 
is  turned  by  Lockhart,  or  his  printers,  into  '  Por 
royal  ivas,'  etc.  In  iv,  597,  Scott  has  '  peace  and 
wealth  .  .  .  has  blessed ; '  but,  as  any  schoolboy  could 
explain,  that  is  not  a  parallel  case. 

"  The  archaisms  to  Avhich  I  have  just  referred  have 
proved,  as  in  The  Lady  of  the  Lake,  a  stumbling-block 
to  editors  or  their  proof-readers.  I  have  seen  an 
edition   of  Sliakespeare  in   which   every  instance  of  the 


12         AMERICAN  PUBLISHERS'  PREFACE. 

obsolete  vail  {=  lower,  let  fall )  is  '  corrected '  to  veil, 
the  difference  being  assumed  to  be  one  of  spelling 
merely;  and  in  Marmion,  iii.  234,  where  the  early 
editions  all  have  vad,  the  recent  ones  all  have  veil.  In 
vi.  608,  where  Scott  uses  the  word  again  (if  we  may 
trust  the  early  editions),  Lockhart  prints  'vails.  Here 
a  question  may  possibly  be  raised  as  to  the  true  read- 
ing ;  but  in  iii.  194  I  have  no  doubt  that  Scott's 
word  was  sleigJits,  as  in  all  the  early  editions,  and 
not  sligJits,  as  in  Lockhart's  and  all  the  later  ones. 
Lockhart  is  also  responsible,  I  believe,  for  the  bad 
corruption  of  'For  me,'  etc.  for  'From  me,'  etc.,  in  iii. 
ind.    228. 

"  In  iii.  ind.  28,  the  first  edition  has  '  Some  tran- 
sient fit  of  loftier  rhyme : '  but  every  other  edition 
that  I  have  seen  has  '  lofti/  rhyme.'  We  may  be 
sure  that  Scott  wn'ote  the  former,  and  that  he  woukl 
never   have   altered   it    to    the  latter.  .  .   . 

"  T  may  add  that  Lockhart  did  not  collate  the  early 
editions  with  sufficient  care  while  comparing  the  printed 
trxt   with   the  original   MS.  ;    for   in    several    instances 


AMERICAN  PUBLISHERS'  PREFACE.        13 

(see,  for  exaiiiplc,  on  iv.  (535,  647,  etc.),  as  in  The 
Ladi)  of  the  Lake,  he  gives  readings  us  ibutid  oulv  in 
tiie  MS.  vvbicli  really  occur  in  tlie  lirst  edition." 

The  Publishers  therefore  can  confidently  claim 
lor  these  editions  that  they  are  the  only  correct 
ones    now   in    print. 

Boston,  August,  1885. 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 


TO 


THE  FIKST   EDITION. 


It  is  hardly  to  be  expected  that  an  author  whom 
the  public  have  houored  with  some  degree  of  applause 
should  not  be  again  a  trespasser  on  their  kindness. 
Yet  the  author  of  "  Marmion  "  must  be  supposed  to 
feel  some  anxiety  concerning  its  success,  since  he  is 
sensible  that  he  hazards,  by  this  second  intrusion,  any 
reputation  which  his  first  poem  may  have  procured 
him.  The  present  story  turns  upon  the  private 
adventures  of  a  fictitious  character,  but  is  called  a 
"Tale  of  Elodden  Field,"  because  the  hero's  fate  is 
connected  with  that  memorable  defeat  and  the  causes 
which  led  to  it.  The  design  of  the  author  was,  if 
possible,  to  apprise  his  readers,  at  the  outset,  of  the 


16  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 

date  of  his  story,  and  to  prepare  tliein  for  the  maimers 
of  the  age  in  which  it  is  hiid.  Any  historical  narra- 
tive, far  more  an  attempt  at  epic  composition, 
exceeded  his  plan  of  a  romantic  tale  ;  yet  he  may 
be  permitted  to  hope,  from  the  popularity  of  "  The 
Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,"  that  an  attempt  to  paint 
the  manners  of  the  feudal  times,  upon  a  broader  scale, 
and  in  the  course  of  a  more  interesting  story,  will  not 
be  unacceptable  to  the  public. 

The  poem  ojiens  about  the  commencement  of 
August,  and  conckidcs  with  the  defeat  of  Flodden, 
9th  September,  1513. 

ASHKSTIEL,  1808. 


AUTHOR'S    PREFACE 


TO 


THE  EDITION  OF  1830. 


What  I  have  to  say  respecting  this  jioem  may  be 
brielly  told.  In  the  Introduction  to  the  "  Lay  of  the 
Last  Minstrel "  I  have  mentioned  the  circumstances, 
so  far  as  my  literary  life  is  concerned,  which  induced 
me  to  resign  the  active  pursuit  of  an  honorable  pro- 
fession for  the  more  precarious  resources  of  literature. 
My  appointment  to  the  SheriflTdom  of  Selkirk  called 
for  a  change  of  residence.  I  left,  therefore,  the 
pleasant  cottage  I  had  upon  tlie  side  of  the  Esk,  for 
the  "  pleasanter  banks  of  the  Tweed,"  in  order  to 
comply  with  the  law,  which  requires  that  the  sheriff 
shall  be  resident,  at  least  during  a  certain  number  of 
months,  within  his  jurisdiction.    We  found  a  delight- 


18  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE 

fill  retirement,  by  my  becoming  the  tenant  of  my 
intimate  friend  and  cousin-german,  Colonel  Eussel, 
in  his  mansion  of  Ashestiel,  wliich  was  unoccnpied 
during  his  absence  on  military  service  in  India.  The 
house  was  adequate  to  our  accommodation  and  the 
exercise  of  a  limited  hosjntality.  The  situation  is 
uncommonly  beautiful,  by  the  side  of  a  fine  river 
whose  streams  are  there  very  favorable  for  angling, 
surrounded  by  the  remains  of  natural  woods,  and  by 
hills  abounding  in  game.  In  point  of  society,  accord- 
ing to  the  heartfelt  phrase  of  Scri])ture,  we  dwelt 
"  amongst  our  own  people ; '''  and  as  the  distance 
from  the  metropolis  was  only  thirty  miles,  we  were 
not  out  of  reach  of  our  Edinburgli  friends,  in  which 
city  we  spent  the  terms  of  the  summer  and  winter 
sessions  of  the  court,  that  is,  five  or  six  months  in 
the  year. 

An  important  circumstance  had,  about  the  same 
time,  taken  place  in  my  life.  Ho])es  had  been  held 
out  to  me  from  an  influential  quarter,  of  a  nature  to 
relieve  me  from  the  anxiety  which  I  must  have  other- 


TO   THE  EDITION  OF  1S30.  19 

wise  felt,  as  one  upon  the  precarious  tenure  of  whose 
own  life  rested  the  principal  prospects  of  his  family, 
and  especially  as  one  who  had  necessarily  some 
dependence  upon  the  favor  of  the  public,  which  is 
proverbially  capricious;  though  it  is  but  justice  to 
add  that  in  my  own  case  I  have  not  found  it  so.  Mr. 
Pitt  had  expressed  a  wish  to  my  personal  friend,  the 
Right  Honorable  William  Dundas,  now  Lord  Clerk 
Register  of  Scotland,  that  some  fitting  opportunity 
should  be  taken  to  be  of  service  to  me  ;  and  as  my 
views  and  wishes  pointed  to  a  future  rather  than  an 
immediate  provision,  an  opportunity  of  accomplishing 
this  was  soon  found.  One  of  the  Principal  Clerks 
of  Session,  as  they  are  called  (official  persons  who 
occupy  an  important  and  responsible  situation,  and 
enjoy  a  considerable  income),  who  had  served  up- 
wards of  thirty  years,  felt  himself,  from  age  and  the 
infirmity  of  deafness  with  whicli  it  was  accompanied, 
desirous  of  retiring  from  his  official  situation.  As 
the  law  then  stood,  such  official  persons  were  entitled 
to  bargain  with  their  successors,  either  for  a  sum  of 


20  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE 

money,  which  was  usually  a  considerable  onCj  or  for 
an  interest  in  the  emoluments  of  the  office  during 
their  life.  My  predecessor,  whose  services  had  been 
unusually  meritorious,  stipulated  for  the  emoluments 
of  his  office  during  his  life,  while  I  should  enjoy  the 
survivorship,  on  the  condition  that  I  discharged  the 
duties  of  the  office  in  the  mean  time.  Mr.  Pitt,  how- 
ever, having  died  in  the  interval,  his  administration 
was  dissolved,  and  was  succeeded  by  that  known  by 
the  name  of  the  Fox  and  Grenville  Ministry.  My 
affair  was  so  far  completed  that  my  commission  lay 
in  the  office  subscribed  by  his  Majesty ;  but,  from 
hurry  or  mistake,  the  interest  of  my  predecessor  was 
not  expressed  in  it,  as  had  been  usual  in  such  cases. 
Although,  therefore,  it  oidy  required  payment  of  the 
fees,  I  could  not  in  honor  take  out  the  connnission 
in  the  present  state,  since,  in  tlie  event  of  my  dying 
before  him,  the  gentleman  whom  I  succeeded  must 
have  lost  the  vested  interest  which  he  had  stipulated 
to  retain.  I  had  the  honor  of  an  interview  with 
Earl    Spencer  on  the  subject,  and  he,  in  the  most 


TO   THE  EDITION   OF   ISJO.  21 

Inmdsoine  manner,  gave  directions  tliat  the  coin- 
mission  slioukl  issue  as  originally  intended ;  adding, 
that  the  matter  liaving  received  the  royal  assent,  he 
regarded  only  as  a  claun  of  justice  what  he  would 
have  willingly  done  as  an  act  of  favor.  I  never 
saw  Mr.  Fox  on  this  or  on  any  other  occasion,  and 
never  made  any  application  to  him,  conceiving  that 
in  doing  so  I  miglit  have  been  supposed  to  express 
political  opinions  contrary  to  those  which  I  had 
always  professed.  In  his  private  capacity,  there 
is  no  man  to  whom  I  would  have  been  more 
proud  to  owe  an  obligation,  had  I  been  so  distin- 
guished. 

By  this  arrangement  I  obtained  the  survivorship 
of  an  office  the  Emoluments  of  which  were  fully 
adequate  to  my  wishes  ;  and  as  the  law  respecting 
the  mode  of  providing  for  superannuated  officers 
was,  about  five  or  six  years  after,  altered  from  that 
which  admitted  the  arrangement  of  assistant  and 
successor,  my  colleague  very  handsomely  took  the 
opportunity  of  the  alteration  to  accept  of  the  retirmg 


^2  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE 

animitj  provided  in  such  cases,  and  admitted  me  to 
the  full  benefit  of  the  office. 

But  although  the  certainty  of  succeeding  to  a  con- 
siderable income,  at  the  time  I  obtained  it,  seemed  to 
assure  me  of  a  quiet  harbor  in  mj  old  age,  I  did  not 
esca])e  my  share  of  inconvenience  from  the  contrary 
tides  and  currents  by  which  we  are  so  often  encoun- 
tered in  our  journey  through  life,  indeed,  the  pub- 
lication of  my  next  poetical  attempt  was  prematurely 
accelerated,  from  one  of  those  unpleasant  accidents 
which  can  neither  be  foreseen  nor  avoided. 

I  had  formed  the  prudent  resolution  to  endeavor 
to  bestow  a  little  more  Inbor  than  I  had  yet  done  on 
my  productions,  and  to  be  in  no  hurry  again  to 
aimounce  myself  as  a  candidate'  for  literary  fame. 
Accordnigly,  particular  passages  of  a  ])oem  Avhich 
M^as  finally  called  "  Marmion  "  were  labored  with  a 
good  deal  of  care  by  one  by  whom  much  care  was 
seldom  bestowed.  Whether  the  work  was  worth  tiie 
labor  or  not,  I  am  no  competent  judge  ;  but  I  mny 
be  permitted  to  say  that  the  period  of  its  composition 


TO   THE  EDITION  OF  1S30.  23 

was  a  very  happy  one  in  my  life;  so  mucli  so,  that 
I  remember  with  pleasure^  at  this  moment,  some  of 
the  spots  in  wliich  particuhir  passages  were  com- 
posed. It  is  probably  owing  to  this  that  the  Intro- 
ductions to  the  several  cantos  assumed  the  form  of 
familiar  epistles  to  rny  intimate  friends,  in  which 
I  alluded,  perhaps  more  than  was  necessary  or  grace- 
ful, to  my  domestic  occupations  and  amusements,  — 
a  loquacity  which  may  be  excused  by  those  who 
remember  that  I  was  still  young,  light-headed,  and 
happy,  and  that  "  out  of  the  abundance  of  the  heart 
the  mouth  speaketh/' 

The  misfortunes  of  a  near  relation  and  friend,  which 
happened  at  this  tiine,  led  me  to  alter  my  prudent 
determination,  which  had  been  to  use  great  pre- 
caution in  sending  this  poem  into  the  world ;  and 
made  it  convenient  at  least,  if  not  absolutely  neces- 
sary, to  hasten  its  publication.  The  publishers  of 
"The  Lay  of  the  Last  Minstrel,^'  emboldened  by  the 
success  of  that  poem,  willingly  offered  a  thousand 
pounds  for  "  Marmion/^     The  transaction,  being  no 


24  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE 

secret,  afforded  Ijord  Byron,  who  was  then  at  general 
war  with  all  who  blacked  paper,  an  apology  for 
including  me  in  his  satire  entitled  "  English  Bards 
and  Scotch  Reviewers."  I  never  could  conceive  how 
an  arrangement  between  an  author  and  his  publishers, 
if  satisfactory  to  the  persons  concerned,  could  afford 
matter  of  censure  to  any  third  party.  I  had  taken 
no  unusual  or  ungenerous  means  of  enhancing  the 
value  of  my  merchandise,  —  I  had  never  higgled  a 
moment  about  the  bargain,  but  accepted  at  once 
what  I  considered  the  handsome  offer  of  my  pub- 
lishers. These  gentlemen,  at  least,  were  not  of 
opinion  that  they  had  been  taken  advantage  of  in 
the  transaction,  which  indeed  was  one  of  their  own 
framing ;  on  the  contrary,  the  sale  of  the  poem  was 
so  far  beyond  their  expectation  as  to  induce  them  to 
supply  the  author^s  cellars  with  what  is  always  an 
acceptable  present  to  a  young  Scottish  housekeeper, 
namely,  a  hogshead  of  excellent  claret. 

The  poem  was  finished  in  too  much  haste  to  allow 
me  an  opportunity  of  softening  down,  if  not  remov- 


TO   THE  EDITION  OF  18S0.  25 

iiig-,  some  of  its  most  prominent  defects.  'V\\v.  iiatui-c 
of  Ar;iriiii()ii's  i^iiilt,  although  similar  instances  were 
foundj  and  might  be  quoted,  as  existing  in  feudal 
times,  was  nevertheless  not  sufficiently  peculiar  to 
be  indicative  of  tlie  character  of  the  period,  forgery 
being  the  crime  of  a  commercial  rather  than  a  proud 
and  warbke  age.  This  gross  defect  ought  to  have 
been  remedied  or  palliated.  Yet  I  suttered  the  tree 
to  lie  as  it  had  fallen.  I  remember  my  friend.  Dr. 
Leyden,  theii  in  the  East,  wrote  me  a  furious  remon- 
strance on  the  subject.  I  have,  nevertheless,  always 
been  of  opinion  that  corrections,  however  in  them- 
selves judicious,  have  a  bad  eflTect  — after  publica- 
tion. An  author  is  never  so  decidedly  condemned 
as  on  his  own  confession,  and  may  long  find  a])olo- 
gists  and  partisans  until  he  gives  up  his  own  cause. 
I  was  not,  therefore,  inclined  to  afford  matter  for 
censure  out  of  my  own  admissions ;  and,  by  good 
fortune,  the  novelty  of  the  subject  and,  if  I  may  say 
so,  some  force  and  vivacity  of  description,  were 
allowed  to  atone  for  mauy  imperfections.     Thus  the 


26  AUTHOR'S  PREFACE. 

second  experiment  on  the  public  patience,  generally 
the  most  perilous,  —  for  the  public  are  then  most  apt 
to  judge  with  rigor  what  in  the  first  instance  they 
had  received  perhaps  with  imprudent  generosity,  — 
was  in  my  case  decidedly  successful.  I  had  the 
good  fortune  to  pass  this  ordeal  favorably,  and  the 
return  of  sales  before  me  makes  the  copies  amount  to 
thirty-six  thousand  printed  between  1808  and  1825, 
besides  a  considerable  sale  since  that  period.  I  shall 
here  pause  upon  the  subject  of  "  Marmion,"  and,  in 
a  few  prefatory  words  to  "  The  Lady  of  the  Lake," 
the  last  poem  of  mine  which  obtained  eminent  suc- 
cess, I  will  continue  the  task  which  I  have  imposed 
on  myself  respecting  the  origin  of  my  productions. 

W.  S 
Abbotsford,  April,  1830. 


CONTENTS. 

— • — 

FACE 

AMERICAN   PrjJPACE 9 

Author's  Preface  to  the  First  Edition       ...  13 

Author's  Preface  to  the  Edition  op  1830       .     .  15 

Introduction  to  Canto  First 37 

Canto  First. 

The  Castle 51 

Introduction  to  Canto  Second 79 

Canto  Second. 

The  Convent 89 

Introduction  to  Canto  Third 121 

Canto  Third. 

The  Hostel,  or  Inn 131 

Introduction  to  Canto  Fourth 161 

Canto  Fourth. 

The  Camp 169 


28  CONTENTS. 

Page 

Introduction  to  Canto  Fifth 201 

Canto  Fifth. 

The  Court .     209 

Introduction  to  Canto  ISixth  255 

Canto  Sixth. 

The  Battle 265 

L'Envoy. 

To  THE  Header  ...  .     .     314 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


Str  Walter  Scott Frontispiece 

Abbotsford Engraved  Title 

Half  Title 33 

Headpikce  to  Introduction 37 

Tailpiece  to  Introduction .     .    49 

"  Day  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep, 
And  Tweed's  fair  river,  broad  and  deep, 

And  Cheviot's  mountains  lone  " 51 

A  Loophole 53 

"  Two  pursuivants,  whom  tabards  deck, 
With  silver  scutcheon  round  their  neck. 

Stood  on  the  steps  of  stone  " 59 

"  A  mighty  wassail-bowl  he  took, 

And  crowned  it  high  with  wine. 
'  Now  pledge  me  here.  Lord  Marmion  ; 

But  first  I  pray  thee  fair  '  " .63 

"  But  strode  across  the  hall  of  state, 
And  fronted  Marmion  where  lie  sate 

As  he  his  peer  had  been  "       73 


30  LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Page 

Headpiece  to  Introduction .      79 

"  Where,  from  high  Whitby's  cloistered  pile  "...       89 

"  She  sate  upon  the  galley's  prow, 

And  seemed  to  mark  the  waves  below  "      ....       93 

LiNDISEAKNE   AbBEY 100 

"  And  there  she  stood  so  calm  and  pale, 

That,  but  her  breathing  did  not  fail, 

You  might  have  thought  a  form  of  wax, 

Wrought  to  tlie  very  life,  was  there  ; 

So  still  she  was,  so  pale,  so  fair "  .     .     .     .  .         .     10/ 

Tailpiece - 117 

Headpiece  to  Introduction 121 

"  The  village  inu  seemed  large,  though  rude  "     .  .     131 

"  And  viewed  around  the  blazing  hearth 

His  followers  niix  iu  noisy  mirth  ",......     135 

"  Long  since,  beneath  Dunfermline's  nave, 

King  Alexander  fills  his  grave  "...  ....     151 

"  In  moonbeam  half,  and  half  in  gloom. 

Stood  a  tall  form  with  nodding  plume  ; 

But,  ere  his  dagger  Eustace  drew, 

His  master  Marmion's  voice  he  knew  "  .  ....     155 

Headpiece  to  Introduction 161 

"  Down  from  his  horse  did  Marniion  spring 

Soon  as  he  saw  the  Lion-King  ; 

For  well  the  stately  baron  knew 

To  him  such  courtesy  was  due  " 177 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS.  81 

Page 

*'  Full  on  liis  face  t  !io  inooubeiim  strooK  :  — 

A  face  could  never  be  mistook  ! 

1  knew  the  stern  vindictive  look "     .     .     ,  ■         .     187 

"  Where  the  huge  Castle  holds  its  state, 

And  all  the  steep  slope  down, 
Whose  ridgy  back  heaves  to  the  sky, 
Piled  deep  and  massy,  close  and  high  "       .     .  .     .     195 

Headpiece  to  Introduction     ....         ...    201 

Tailpiece  to  Introduction 208 

"  Next,  Marmion  marked  the  Celtic  race. 

Of  different  language,  form,  and  face  " 213 

"  The  monarch  o'er  the  siren  hung. 
And  beat  the  measure  as  she  sung ; 
And,  pressing  closer  and  more  near, 
He  whispered  praises  in  her  car  " 223 

"  On  Derby  Hills  the  paths  are  steep ; 

In  Ouse  and  Tyne  the  fords  are  <leep  " 229 

"  The  antique  buildings,  climbing  high, 
Whose  Gothic  frontlets  sought  the  sky, 

Were  here  wrapt  deep  in  shade  " 233 

"  At  night,  in  secret,  there  they  came, 

The  Palmer  and  the  holy  dame. 

Ihe  moon  among  the  clouds  rode  high. 

And  all  the  city  hum  was  by  " 235 

''  Then  took  the  squire  her  rein, 
And  gently  led  away  her  steed, 
And  by  each  courteous  word  and  deed 

To  cheer  her  strove  in  vain  ".....  ,     249 


:]-Z  LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Page 

Headpiece  to  Introduction     ........     255 

Tailpiece  to  Introduction 263 

''  She  raised  her  eyes  in  mounifiil  inndd.  — 

Wilton  himself  before  her  stood  !  " 271 

"  The  rest  were  all  in  Twisel  glen  " 277 

"  '  Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied  ! '  — 
On  the  earl's  cheek  tlie  flush  of  rage 
O'ercanie  the  ashen  hue  of  age  " 283 

"  The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  flies 

Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise  " •     285 

Flodden  Field ...     299 

"  A  light  on  Marmion's  visage  spread, 

And  fired  his  glazing  eye  ; 
Witli  dying  hand  above  his  head 
He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade, 

And  shouted 'Victory  !'  —  "    ......  .305 

"  There  erst  was  martial  Marmiou  found, 
His  feet  upon  a  couchant  hound, 

His  hands  to  heaven  upraised ; 
And  all  around,  on  scutcheon  rich, 
And  tablet  carvca,  and  iVetted  niche, 

His  arms  and  feats  were  blazed"  ...  .     811 


CANTO    FIEST 

THE   CASTLE. 


MA  EM  ION. 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  FIRST. 


TO   WILLIAM  STEWART   ROSE,   ESQ. 


Ashesflel,  Eltrlck  Forest. 

November's  sky  is  cliill  and  drear, 
November's  leaf  is  red  and  sear : 
Late,  gazing  down  the  steepy  linn 
That  hems  our  little  garden  in, 
Low  in  its  dark  and  narrow  glen, 
You  scarce  the  rivulet  might  ken, 
So  thick  the  tangled  greeuAvood  grew. 
So  feeble  trilled  the  streamlet  through ; 
Now,  murmuring  hoarse,  and  frequent  seen 
Through  bush  and  brier,  no  longer  green, 
An  angry  brook,  it  sweeps  the  glade, 
Brawls  over  rock  and  wild  cascade, 


38  MARMION. 

And,  foaming  broAvii  with  double  speed, 
Hurries  its  waters  to  the  Tweed. 

No  longer  autumn's  glowing  red 
Upon  our  Forest  hills  is  shed; 
No  more,  beneath  the  evening  beam, 
Fair  Tweed  refleets  their  purple  gleam. 
Away  hath  passed  the  heather-bell 
Tiiat  bloomed  so  rich  on  Needpath-fell ; 
Sallow  iiis  brow,  and  russet  bare 
Are  now  the  sister-heiglits  of  Yair. 
The  sheep,  before  the  pinching  heaven, 
To  sheltered  dale  and  down  are  driven, 
Where  yet  some  faded  herbage  pines, 
And  yet  a  watery  sunbeam  shines  ; 
In  meek  despondency  they  eye 
The  withered  sward  and  wintry  sky. 
And  far  beneatli  their  summer  hill 
Stray  sadly  by  Glenkinnon's  rill. 
The  shepherd  shifts  his  mantle's  fold, 
And  wraps  him  closer  from  the  cold : 
His  dogs  no  merry  circles  Avheel, 
But  shivering  follow  at  his  heel ; 
A  cowering  glance  they  often  cast, 
As  deeper  moans  the  gathering  blast. 

My  imps,  though  liardy,  bold,  and  wild. 
As  best  befits  the  mountain  child, 
Feel  tlie  sad  influence  of  the  hour, 
And  wail  the  daisy's  vanished  flower, 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  FIRST.         39 

Tlicir  summer  gambols  tell,  and  mourn, 
And  anxious  ask,  — Will  spring  return, 
And  birds  and  lambs  again  be  gay, 
And  blossoms  clot.lu;  the  luivvtliorn  spray? 

Yes,  prattlers,  yes.     The  daisy's  flower 
Again  shall  paint  your  summer  bower; 
Again  the  hawthorn  shall  supply 
The  garlands  you  delight  to  tie  ; 
Tiie  lambs  upon  the  lea  shall  bound. 
The  wild  birds  carol  to  the  round; 
And  while  you  frolic  light  as  they, 
Too  short  shall  seem  the  summer  day. 

To  mute  and  to  material  things 
New  life  revolving  summer  brings ; 
The  geidal  call  dead  Nature  hears. 
And  in  her  glory  reappears. 
But  oh  !  my  country's  wintry  state 
What  second  spring  shall  renovate? 
What  powerful  call  shall  bid  arise 
The  buried  warlike  and  the  wise. 
The  mind  that  thought  for  Britain's  weal. 
The  hand  that  grasped  the  victor  steel  ? 
The  vernal  sun  new  life  bestows 
Even  on  the  meanest  flower  that  blows  ; 
But  vainly,  vainly  may  he  shine 
Where  Glory  weeps  o'er  Nelson's  shrine. 
And  vainly  pierce  the  solemn  gloom 
That  shrouds,  0  Pitt,  thy  hallowed  tomb! 


40  MARMION. 

Deep  graved  in  every  British  heart. 
Oh,  never  let  those  names  depart ! 
Say  to  your  sons,  — Lo,  here  his  grave 
Who  victor  died  on  Gadite  wave  ! 
To  liim,  as  to  the  burning  levin, 
Short,  bright,  resistless  course  was  given ; 
Where'er  his  country's  foes  were  found, 
Was  heard  the  fated  thunder's  souiul, 
Till  burst  the  bolt  on  yonder  shore, 
Eolled,  blazed,  destroyed,  —  and  was  no  more. 

Nor  mourn  ye  less  his  perished  worth 

Who  bade  the  conqueror  go  forth. 

And  launched  that  thunderbolt  of  war 

On  Egypt,  Hafnia,  Trafiilgar ; 

AVho,  born  to  guide  such  high  emprise, 

For  Britain's  weal  was  early  wise ; 

Alas  !   to  whom  the  Almighty  gave, 

For  Britain's  sins,  an  early  grave ! 

His  worth  who,  in  his  mightiest  hour, 

A  bauble  held  the  pride  of  power, 

Spurned  at  the  sordid  lust  of  pelf. 

And  served  his  Albion  for  herself; 

Who,  when  the  frantic  crowd  amain 

Strained  at  subjection's  l)ursting  rein, 

O'er  their  wild  mood  full  conquest  gained. 

The  pride,  he  would  not  crush,  restrained. 

Showed  their  fierce  zeal  a  worthier  cause, 

And   brought    the   freeman's    arm    to  aid  the  freeman's 
laws. 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  FIRST.         41 

Hadst  tlioii  but  lived,  thougli  stripped  of  power, 
A  watcliinau  on  the  lonely  tower, 
Tliy  thrilling  trump  had  roused  tiie  laud, 
When  fraud  or  danger  were  at  hand ; 
By  thee,  as  by  the  beacon-light, 
Our  pilots  had  kept  course  aright; 
As  some  proud  column,  thongh  alone, 
'Y\\y  strength  had  propped  the  tottering  throne. 
Now  is  the  stately  column  broke, 
The  beacon-light  is  quenched  in  smoke, 
The  trumpet's  silver  sound  is  still, 
The  warder  silent  on  the  hill ! 

Oil,  think,  how  to  his  latest  day. 
When  death,  just  hovering,  claimed  his  prey, 
With  Palinure's  unaltered  mood, 
Firm  at  his  dangerous  post  he  stood, 
Each  call  for  needful  rest  repelled, 
With  dying  hand  the  rudder  held, 
Till,  in  his  fall,  with  fateful  sway. 
The  steerage  of  the  realm  gave  way  ! 
Then,  while  on  Britain's  thousand  plains 
One  unpolluted  church  remains, 
Whose  peaceful  bells  ne'er  sent  around 
The  bloody  tocsin's  maddening  sound. 
But  still,  upon  the  hallowed  day. 
Convoke  the  swains  to  praise  and  pray ; 
While  faith  and  civil  peace  are  dear, 
Grace  this  cold  marble  Avith  a  tear,  — 
He  who  preserved  them,  Pitt,  lies  here. 


42  MAimiON. 

Nor  yet  suppress  the  generous  sigh 
Because  his  rival  slumbers  nigh, 
Nor  be  thy  requiescat  (huub 
Lest  it  be  said  o'er  Pox's  tomb ; 
Por  talents  mourn,  untimely  lost, 
When  best  employed  and  wanted  most ; 
Mourn  genius  high,  and  lore  profound. 
And  wit  that  loved  to  play,  not  wound ; 
And  all  the  reasoning  powers  divine. 
To  penetrate,  resolve,  combine  ; 
And  feelings  keen,  and  fancy's  glow. 
They  sleep  with  him  who  sleeps  below  : 
And,  if  thou  mourn'st  they  could  not  save 
From  error  him  who  owns  this  grave, 
Be  every  harsher  thought  suppressed, 
And  sacred  be  the  last  long  rest. 
Here,  where  the  end  of  earthly  things 
Lays  heroes,  patriots,  bards,  and  Icings  ; 
Where  stiff  the  hand,  and  still  the  tongue. 
Of  those  who  fought,  and  spoke,  and  sung : 
Here,  where  the  fretted  aisles  prolong 
The  distant  notes  of  holy  song. 
As  if  some  angel  spoke  again, 
'All  peace  on  earth,  good-will  to  men;' 
If  ever  from  an  English  heart. 
Oh,  here  let  prejudice  depart. 
And,  partial  feeling  cast  aside. 
Record  that  Fox  a  Briton  died ! 
When  Europe  crouched  to  France's  yoke. 
And  Austria  bent,  and  Prussia  broke. 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  FIRST.         43 

And  the  firm  Russian's  purpose  brave 
Was  bartered  by  a  timorous  slave, 
Even  tlieu  dishonor's  peace  he  spurned, 
Tiie  sullied  olive-braneh  returned, 
Stood  for  his  country's  glory  fast, 
And  nailed  her  colors  to  the  mast ! 
Heaven,  to  rcAvard  his  firmness,  gave 
A  portion  in  this  honored  grave, 
And  ne'er  held  marble  in  its  trust 
Of  two  such  wondrous  men  the  dust. 

With  more  than  mortal  powers  endowed, 
How  high  they  soared  above  the  crowd  ! 
Theirs  was  no  common  party  race. 
Jostling  by  dark  intrigue  for  place; 
Like  fabled  Gods,  their  mighty  war 
Shook  realms  and  nations  in  its  jar; 
Beneath  each  banner  proud  to  stand. 
Looked  up  the  noblest  of  the  land. 
Till  through  the  British  world  were  known 
The  names  of  Pitt  and  Fox  alone. 
Spells  of  such  force  no  wizard  grave 
E'er  framed  in  dark  Thessalian  cave, 
Thou2:h  his  could  drain  the  ocean  drv. 
And  force  the  planets  from  the  sky. 
These  spells  are  spent,  and,  spent  with  these, 
The  wine  of  life  is  on  the  lees, 
Genius  and  taste  and  talent  gone, 
Forever  tombed  beneath  the  stone. 
Where  —  taming  thought  to  human  pride  !  — 


44  MARMION. 

Tlic  mighty  chiefs  sleep  side  by  side. 
Drop  upon  Fox's  grave  the  tear, 
'T  will  trickle  to  his  rival's  bier ; 
O'er  Pitt's  the  mournful  requiem  sound, 
And  Fox's  shall  the  notes  rebound. 
The  solemn  echo  seems  to  cry, — 
'  Here  let  their  discord  with  them  die. 
Speak  not  for  those  a  separate  doom 
Whom  Fate  made  brothers  in  the  tomb ; 
lint  search  the  land,  of  living  men. 
Where  wilt  thou  find  their  like  again?' 

Eest,  ardent  spirits,  till  the  cries 
Of  dying  nature  bid  you  rise ! 
Not  even  your  Britain's  groans  can  pierce 
Tiie  leaden  silence  of  your  hearse  ; 
Then,  oh,  how  impotent  and  vain 
This  grateful  tributary  strain  ! 
Though  not  unmarked  from  northern  clime. 
Ye  heard  the  Border  ]\Iinstrel's  rhyme  : 
His  Gothic  harp  has  o'er  you  rung; 

The  Bard  you  deigned  to  praise,  your  deathless  names 
has  sun"-. 


n' 


Stay  yet,  illusion,  stay  a  while, 
My  wildered  fancy  still  beguile  ! 
From  this  high  theme  how  can  I  part. 
Ere  half  unloaded  is  my  heart ! 
For  all  the  tears  e'er  sorrow  drew, 
And  all  the  raptures  fancy  knew. 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  FIRST.         45 

And  all  the  keener  rush  of  blood 

That  throbs  through  bard  in  bardlike  mood, 

Were  here  a  tribute  mean  and  low, 

Though  all  their  mingled  streams  could  flow  — 

Woe,  wonder,  and  sensation  high, 

In  one  spring-tide  of  ecstasy  !  — 

It  will  not  be  —  it  may  not  last  — 

The  vision  of  enchantment 's  past : 

Like  frostwork  in  the  morning  ray. 

The  fancy  fabric  melts  away ; 

Each  Gothic  arch,  memorial-stone, 

And  long,  dim,  lofty  aisle,  are  gone; 

And,  lingering  last,  deception  dear. 

The  choir's  high  soiuids  die  on  my  ear. 

Now  slow  return  the  lonely  down. 

The  silent  pastures  bleak  and  brown. 

The  farm  begirt  with  copsewood  wild. 

The  gambols  of  each  frolic  child. 

Mixing  their  shrill  cries  with  the  tone 

Of  Tweed's  dark  waters  rushing  on. 

Prompt  on  imequal  tasks  to  run. 
Thus  Nature  disciplines  her  son  : 
Meeter,  she  says,  for  me  to  stray, 
And  waste  the  solitary  day 
In  plucking  from  yon  fen  the  reed, 
And  Avatch  it  floating  down  the  Tweed, 
Or  idly  list  the  shrilling  lay 
With  which  the  milkmaid  cheers  her  way, 
Mai-king  its  cadence  rise  and  fail. 


46  MARMION. 

As  from  the  field,  beneath  her  puil, 
She  trips  it  down  the  uneven  dale ; 
Meeter  for  inc,  by  yonder  cairn, 
Tlie  ancient  shepherd's  tale  to  leai'n, 
Thong-li  oft  he  stop  in  rustic  fear. 
Lest  his  old  legends  tire  the  ear 
Of  one  who,  in  his  simple  mind, 
Mav  boast  of  book-learned  taste  refined. 


But  tliou,  my  friend,  canst  fitly  tell  — 
Por  few  have  read  romance  so  well  — 
How  still  the  legendary  lay 
O'er  poet's  bosom  holds  its  sway  ; 
How  on  the  ancient  minstrel  strain 
Time  lays  his  palsied  hand  in  vain  ; 
And  liow  our  hearts  at  doughty  deeds. 
By  warriors  wa'ought  in  steely  weeds, 
Still  throb  for  fear  and  pity's  sake ; 
As  when  the  Champion  of  the  Lake 
Enters  Morgaiia's  fated  house. 
Or  in  the  Chapel  Perilous, 
Despising  spells  and  demons'  force, 
Holds  converse  with  the  unburied  corse ; 
Or  when.  Dame  Ganore's  grace  to  move  - 
Alas,  that  lawless  was  their  love !  — 
He  sought  proud  Tarquin  in  his  den. 
And  freed  full  sixty  knights  ;  or  when, 
A  sinful  man  and  unconfessed, 
He  took  the  Sangreal's  holy  quest. 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  FIRST.         47 

Ami  aluiiiberiiig  saw  tlu!  vision  high 
He  might  not  view  with  waking  eye. 


The  mightiest  rhiefs  of  British  song 
Scorned  not  such  h^genils  to  prolong. 
They  gleam  through  Spenser's  elfin  dream, 
An(i  mix  in  Milton's  heavenly  theme ; 
And  Dryden,  in  innnortal  strain, 
Had  raised  the  Table  Konnd  again, 
But  that  a  ribald  king  and  conrt 
Bade  him  toil  on,  to  make  them  sport  j 
Demanded  for  their  niggard  pay, 
Fit  for  their  souls,  a  looser  lay, 
Licentious  satire,  song,  and  play ; 
The  world  defrauded  of  the  high  design. 
Profaned  the  God-given  strength,  and  marred  the  lofty  line. 


Warmed  by  such  names,  well  may  we  then, 
Though  dwindled  sons  of  little  men. 
Essay  to  break  a  feeble  lance 
In  the  fair  fields  of  old  romance ; 
Or  seek  the  moated  castle's  cell, 
Where  long  through  talisman  and  spell, 
While  tyrants  ruled  and  damsels  wept, 
Thy  Genius,  Chivalry,  hath  slept. 
There  sound  the  harpings  of  the  North, 
Till  he  awake  and  sally  forth, 
On  venturous  quest  to  prick  again, 


48  MARMION. 

In  all  his  arms,  with  all  his  train, 

Shield,  lance,  and  brand,  and  plume,  and  scarf, 

Fay,  giant,  dragon,  squire,  and  dwarf, 

And  wizard  with  his  wand  of  might, 

And  errant  maid  on  palfrey  white. 

Around  the  Genius  weave  their  spells, 

Pure  Love,  who  scarce  his  passion  tells; 

Mystery,  half  veiled  and  half  revealed  ; 

And  Honor,  with  his  spotless  shield ; 

Attention,  with  fixed  eye  ;  and  Fear, 

That  loves  the  tale  she  shrinks  to  hear ; 

And  gentle  Courtesy;  and  Faith, 

Unchanged  by  sufferings,  time,  or  death ; 

And  Valor,  lion-mettled  lord. 

Leaning  upon  his  own  good  sword. 


Well  has  thy  fair  achievement  shown 
A  worthy  meed  may  thus  be  won  : 
Yteue's  oaks  —  beneath  whose  shade 
Their  theme  the  merry  minstrels  made, 
Of  Ascapart,  and  Bevis  bold. 
And  that  Red  King,  who,  while  of  old 
Through  Boldrewood  the  chase  he  led, 
By  his  loved  huntsman's  arrow  bled  — 
Ytene's  oaks  have  heard  again 
Renewed  such  legendary  strain  ; 
For  thon  hast  sung,  how  he  of  Gaul, 
That  Amadis  so  famed  in  hall, 
For  Oriana,  foiled  in  fight 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  FIRST. 


49 


The  Necromancer's  felon  might ; 
And  well  in  modern  verse  hast  wove 
Partcnopex's  mystic  love : 
Hear,  tlicii,  attentive  to  my  lay, 
A  knightly  tale  of  Albion's  elder  day. 


CANTO    FIRST. 


THE   CASTLE. 


Day  set  on  Norham's  castled  steep, 
And  Tweed's  feir  river,  broad  and  deep, 

And  Cheviot's  mountains  lone  ; 
The  battled  towers,  the  donjon  keep, 
The  loophole  grates  where  captives  weep. 
The  flanking  walls  that  round  it  sweep. 

In  yellow  lustre  shone. 


52  MARMION. 

The  warriors  on  the  turrets  high, 
Moving  athwart  the  evening  sky, 

Seemed  forms  of  giant  height ; 
Their  armor,  as  it  cauglit  the  rays, 
Fhished  back  again  the  western  Llaze, 

In  lines  of  dazzling  light. 


II. 

Saint  George's  banner,  broad  and  gay, 
Now  faded,  as  the  fading  ray 

Less  bright,  and  less,  was  flung; 
The  evening  gale  had  scarce  the  power 
To  wave  it  on  the  donjon  tower. 

So  heavily  it  hung. 
The  scouts  had  parted  on  their  search, 

The  castle  gates  were  barred ; 
Above  the  gloomy  portal  arch. 
Timing  his  footsteps  to  a  march. 

The  warder  kept  his  guard. 
Low  humming,  as  he  paced  along. 
Some  ancient  Border  gathering  song. 

III. 

A  distant  trampling  sound  he  hears  ; 
He  looks  abroad,  and  soon  appears. 
O'er  Horncliff-hill,  a  plump  of  spears 

Beneath  a  pennon  gay  ; 
A  horseman,  darting  from  the  crowd 
Like  lightning  from  a  summer  cloud. 


THE   CASTLE. 

Spurs  on  his  mettled  courser  proud, 

Before  tlie  dark  array. 
Beneath  tlic  sable  palisade 
That  closed  the  castle  barricade, 

His  bug-lc-liorn  he  blew  ; 


53 


ilUWiii'llUj 


The  warder  hasted  from  the  wall, 
And  warned  the  captain  in  the  hall. 

For  well  the  blast  he  knew ; 
And  joyfully  that  knight  did  call 
To  sewer,  squire,  and  seneschal. 


IV. 


'  Now  broach  ye  a  pipe  of  Malvoisie, 
Bring  pasties  of  the  doe. 


54  MARMION. 

And  quickly  make  the  entrance  free, 
And  bid  my  heralds  ready  be, 
And  every  minstrel  sound  his  glee, 

And  all  our  trumpets  blow  ; 
And,  from  the  platform,  spare  ye  not 
To  fire  a  noblo  salvo-shot ; 

Lord  Marmion  waits  below  ! ' 
Then  to  the  castle's  lower  ward 

Sped  forty  yeomen  tall, 
The  iron-studded  gates  unbarred, 
Eaised  the  portcullis'  ponderous  guard, 
•   The  lofty  palisade  unsparred, 

And  let  the  drawbridge  fall. 


Along  the  bridge  I^ord.  Marmion  rode. 
Proudly  his  red-roan  charger  trode. 
His  helm  hung  at  the  saddle  bow  ; 
Well  by  his  visage  you  might  know 
He  was  a  stalwart  knight  and  keen, 
And  had  in  many  a  battle  been  ; 
The  scar  on  his  brown  cheek  revealed 
A  token  true  of  Eosworth  field  ; 
His  eyebrow  dark  and  eye  of  fire 
Showed  spirit  proud  and  prompt  to  ire, 
Tet  lines  of  thought  upon  his  cheek 
Did  deep  design  and  counsel  speak. 
His  forehead,  by  his  casque  worn  bare, 


THE  CASTLE.  55 


a 


His  tliick  moustache  and  curly  hair, 
Coal-black,  and  grizzled  here  and  there, 

But  more  through  toil  than  age. 
His  square-turned  joints  and  strength  of  limb, 
Showed  him  no  carpet  knight  so  trim. 
But  in  close  fight  a  champion  grim. 

In  camps  a  leader  sage. 


VI. 


"Well  was  he  armed  from  head  to  heel, 

In  mail  and  plate  of  Milan  steel  ; 

But  his  strong  helm,  of  mighty  cost, 

Was  all  with  burnished  gold  embossed. 

Amid  the  plumage  of  the  crest 

A  falcon  hovered  on  her  nest, 

With  wings  outspread  and  forward  breast ; 

E'en  such  a  falcon,  on  his  shield. 

Soared  sable  in  an  azure  field  : 

The  golden  legend  bore  aright, 

'  Who  checks  at  me,  to  death  is  didit.' 

Blue  was  the  charger's  broidered  rein  ; 

Blue  ribbons  decked  his  arching  mane ; 

The  knightly  housing's  ample  fold 

Was  velvet  blue  and  trapped  with  gold. 

VII. 

Behind  him  rode  two  gallant  squires. 
Of  noble  name  and  knightly  sires  : 


56  MAmilON. 

They  burned  the  g-ikled  spurs  to  claim, 
Por  Avell  could  each  a  war-horse  tame, 
Could  draw  the  bow,  the  sword  could  sway, 
And  lightly  bear  the  ring  away; 
Nor  less  with  courteous  precepts  stored. 
Could  dance  in  hall,  and  carve  at  board, 
And  frame  love-ditties  passing  rare. 
And  sing  them  to  a  lady  fair. 


VIII. 

Four  men-at-arms  came  at  their  backs, 

With  halbert,  bill,  and  battle-axe ; 

They  bore  Lord  Marmion's  lance  so  strong, 

And  led  his  sumpter-nndes  along. 

And  ambling  palfrey,  when  at  need 

Him  listed  ease  his  battle-steed. 

The  last  and  trustiest  of  the  four 

On  high  his  forky  pennon  bore ; 

Like  swallow's  tail  in  shape  and  hue, 

Fluttered  tlie  streamer  glossy  blue, 

Where,  blazoned  sable,  as  before. 

The  towering  falcon  seemed  to  soar. 

Last,  twenty  yeomen,  two  and  two, 

1\\  hosen  black  and  jerkins  blue. 

With  falcons  broidered  on  each  breast, 

Attended  on  their  lord's  behest. 

Each,  chosen  for  an  archer  good. 

Knew  hunting-craft  by  lake  or  wood  ; 

Each  one  a  six-foot  bow  coidd  bend, 


THE   CASTLE.  ^  57 

And  far  a  cloth-yard  shaft  could  send  ; 
Each  held  a  boar-spear  tough  and  strong, 
And  at  their  belts  their  quivers  rung. 
Their  dusty  palfreys  and  array 
Showed  they  had  marched  a  weary  way. 


IX. 

'T  is  meet  that  I  sliould  tell  you  now, 
How  fairly  armed,  and  ordered  how 

The  soldiers  of  the  guard. 
With  musket,  pike,  and  morion, 
To  welcome  noble  Maruiion, 

Stood  in  the  castle-yard  ; 
Minstrels  and  trumpeters  were  there, 
The  gunner  held  his  linstock  yare. 

For  welcome-shot  prepared  : 
Entered  the  train,  and  such  a  clang 
As  then  through  all  his  turrets  rang 

01(1  Norham  never  heard. 


X. 

The  guards  their  morrice-pikes  advanced, 
The  trumpets  flourished  brave. 

The  cannon  from  the  ramparts  glanced. 
And  thunderino-  welcome  gave. 

A  blithe  salute,  in  martial  sort. 
The  minstrels  well  might  sound, 


58  ^  MARMION. 

Por,  as  Lord  Marmion  crossed  the  court, 
He  scattered  angels  round, 

'  Welcome  to  Norliam,  Marmion ! 
Stout  heart  and  open  hand ! 

Well  dost  thou  brook  thy  gallant  roan. 
Thou  flower  of  English  land  1  ' 


XI. 

Two  pursuivants,  whom  tabards  deck, 
With  silver  scutcheon  round  their  neck, 

Stood  on  the  steps  of  stone 
By  which  you  reach  the  donjon  gate, 
And  there,  with  herald  pomp  and  state. 

They  hailed  Lord  Marmion  : 
They  hailed  him  Lord  of  Pontenaye, 
Of  Lutterward,  and  Scrivelbaye, 

Of  Tamworth  tower  and  town  ; 
And  he,  their  courtesy  to  requite, 
Gave  them  a  chain  of  twelve  marks'  weight. 

All  as  he  lighted  down. 
'  Now,  largesse,  largesse.  Lord  Marmion, 

Knight  of  the  crest  of  gold  ! 
A  blazoned  shield,  in  battle  won, 


Ne'er  guarded  heart  so  bold.' 


XII. 

They  marshalled  him  to  the  castle-hall. 
Where  the  guests  stood  all  aside, 


THE   CASTLE. 


59 


And  loudly  flonrislicd  (lu;  tnnnpct-call, 
And  the  heralds  loudly  cried, — 

•Jioom,  lordlings,  room  for  Lor([  Marmion, 
With  the  crest  and  helui  of  gold  ! 


Full  well  we  know  the  trophies  won 
In  the  lists  at  Cottiswold  : 

There,  vainly  Kalph  de  Wilton  sti'ove 
'Gainst  Marmion's  force  to  stand ; 


60  M  ARM  I  ON. 

To  him  lie  lost  liis  lady-love, 

And  to  the  king  his  land. 
Ourselves  beheld  the  listed  field, 

A  sig-ht  both  sad  and  fair ; 
We  saw  Lord  Marmioii  pierce  his  shield, 

Antl  saw  his  saddle  bare ; 
We  saw  the  victor  win  the  crest 

He  wears  with  worthy  pride, 
And  on  the  gibbet-tree,  reversed, 

His  foeman's  scutcheon  tied. 
Place,  nobles,  for  the  Falcon-Knight ! 

Room,  room,  ye  gentles  gay, 
For  him  who  conquered  in  the  right, 

Marmion  of  Fontenaye  1 ' 


XIII. 

Then  stepped,  to  meet  that  noble  lord, 

Sir  Hugh  the  Heron  bold, 
Baron  of  Twisell  and  of  Ford, 

And  Captain  of  the  Hold  ; 
He  led  Lord  Marmion  to  the  deas, 

Eaised  o'er  the  pavement  high, 
And  placed  him  in  the  upper  place  — 

They  feasted  full  and  high  : 
The  whiles  a  Northern  harper  rude 
Chanted  a  rhyme  of  deadly  feud, 

'  How  the  fierce  Thirwalls,  and  Ridleys  all, 
Stout  Willimondswick, 


THE   CASTLE.  61 

And  Ilarcl-ruUuii;  Dick, 
And  Ilughie  ol"  Hawdou,  and  Will  o'  the  Wall, 
Have  set  on  Sir  Albany  reatlierstonliaug-li, 
And  taken  liis  life  at  the  Deadman's-shaw.' 
Scantly  Lord  Marmion's  ear  could  brook 

The  harper's  barbarous  lay, 
Yet  much  he  praised  tiie  pains  he  toot, 
And  well  those  pains  did  pay  ; 
For  lady's  suit  and  minstrel's  strain 
By  kniglit  should  ne'er  be  heard  in  vain. 


XIV. 

'Now,  good  Lord  Marniion,'  Heron  says, 

'  Of  your  fair  courtesy, 
I  pray  you  bide  some  little  space 

l\\  this  poor  tower  with  me. 
Here  may  you  keep  your  arms  from  rust, 

May  breathe  your  war-horse  well. 
Seldom  hath  passed  a  week  but  joust 

Or  feat  of  arms  befell. 
The  Scots  can  rein  a  mettled  steed, 

And  love  to  couch  a  spear ;  — 
Saint  George !  a  stirring  life  they  lead 

That  have  such  neighbors  near ! 
Then  stay  with  us  a  little  space, 

Our  Northern  wars  to  learn  ; 
I  pray  you  for  your  lady's  grace  ! ' 

Lord  Marmion's  brow  grew  stern. 


Q-Z  MARMION. 


XV. 


The  captain  marked  his  altered  look, 

And  gave  the  squire  the  sign ; 
A  nnghty  wassail-bowl  he  took. 

And  crowned  it  high  with  wine. 
'  Now  pledge  me  here,  Lord  Marniion  ; 

But  lirst  I  pray  thee  fair, 
Wliere  hast  thou  left  that  page  of  thine 
That  used  to  serve  thy  cup  of  wine, 

Whose  beauty  was  so  rare  ? 
When  last  in  Kaby-towers  we  met, 

The  boy  I  closely  eyed, 
And  often  marked  his  cheeks  were  wet 

With  tears  he  fain  would  hide. 
His  was  no  rugged  horse-boy's  hand. 
To  burnish  shield  or  sharpen  brand, 

Or  saddle  battle-steed. 
But  mceter  seemed  for  lady  fair, 
To  fan  her  cheek,  or  curl  her  hair, 
Or  through  embroidery,  rich  and  rare. 

The  slender  silk  to  lead  ; 
His  skin  was  fair,  his  ringlets  gold, 

His  bosom  —  when  he  sighed. 
The  russet  doublet's  rugged  fold 

Could  scarce  repel  its  pride  ! 
Say,  hast  thou  given  that  lovely  youth 

To  serve  in  lady's  bower  ? 
Or  was  the  gentle  page,  in  sooth, 
A  gentle  paramour  ? ' 


64  MAliMION. 


XVI. 


Lord  Maruiiou  ill  could  brook  sucla  jest ; 

He  rolled  his  ■kindling  eye, 
With  pain  his  rising  wrath  suppressed, 

Yet  made  a  calm  reply  : 
'  That  hoy  thou  thought  so  goodly  fair, 
He  might  not  brook  the  Northern  air. 
More  of  his  fate  if  thou  wouldst  learn, 
I  left  him  sick  in  Lindisfarne. 
Enough  of  him.  —  But,  Heron,  say. 
Why  does  thy  lovely  lady  gay 
Disdain  to  grace  the  hall  to-day  ? 
Or  has  that  diime,  so  fair  and  sage, 
Gone  on  some  pious  pilgrimage?'  — 
He  spoke  in  covert  scorn,  for  fame 
Whispered  light  tales  of  Heron's  dame. 


XVII. 


Unmarked,  at  least  unrecked,  the  taunt, 
Careless  the  knight  replied  : 

'  No  bird  whose  feathers  gayly  flaunt 
Delights  in  cage  to  bide  ; 

Norham  is  grim  and  grated  close. 

Hemmed  in  by  battlement  and  fosse. 
And  many  a  darksome  tower, 

And  better  loves  my  lady  bright 

To  sit  in  libertv  and  light 


THE   CASTLE.  65 

In  fair  Queen  M;ir<i,-;iret's  bower. 
We  hold  our  greyliouud  in  our  hand, 

Our  falcon  on  our  glove, 
J^ut  where  shall  we  find  leash  or  band 

For  dame  that  loves  to  rove  ? 
Let  the  wild  falcon  soar  her  swin<r. 
She  '11  stoop  when  she  has  tired  her  wing.'  — 


XVIII. 

'  Nay,  if  with  Royal  James's  bride 

The  lovely  Lady  Heron  bide, 

Behold  me  here  a  messenger. 

Your  tender  greetings  prompt  to  bearj 

For,  to  the  Scottish  court  acldressed, 

I  journey  at  our  king's  behest, 

And  pray  you,  of  your  grace,  provide 

For  me  and  mine  a  trusty  guide. 

I  have  not  ridden  in  Scotland  since 

James  backed  the  cause  of  that  mock  prince, 

Warbeck,  that  Flemish  counterfeit, 

Who  on  the  gibbet  paid  the  cheat. 

Then  did  I  march  with  Surrey's  power, 

What  time  we  razed  old  Ayton  tower.'  — ■ 


XIX. 

'  For  such-like  need,  my  lord,  I  trow, 
Norham  can  find  you  guides  enow ; 


66  M ARM  I  ON. 

For  here  be  some  luivc  pricked  as  far 

On  Scottish  ground  as  to  Dunbar, 

Have  drunk  the  monks  of  Saint  Bothan's  ale, 

And  driven  the  beeves  of  Lauderdale, 

Harried  the  wives  of  Greenlaw's  goods, 

And  given  them  light  to  set  their  hoods.'  — 


XX. 

'  Now  in  good  sooth,'  Lord  Marmion  cried, 

'  Were  I  in  wai'like  wise  to  ride, 

A  better  guartl  I  would  not  lack 

Than  your  stout  forayers  at  ray  back ; 

But  as  in  form  of  peace  1  go, 

A  friendly  messenger,  to  know, 

"Why,  through  all  Scotland,  near  and  far, 

Their  king  is  mustering  troops  for  war. 

The  sight  of  plundering  l^order  spears 

Might  justify  suspicions  fears, 

And  deadly  feud  or  tliirst  of  spoil 

Break  out  in  some  unseemly  broil. 

A  herald  were  my  fitting  guide  ; 

Or  friar,  sworn  in  peace  to  bide ; 

Or  pardoner,  or  travelling  priest, 

Or  strolling  pilgrim,  at  the  least.' 

XXI. 

The  captain  mused  a  little  space, 

And  passed  his  hand  across  his  face.  — 


THE   CASTLE.  '       67 

'Fain  would  I  find  the  2,-uide  you  want. 

But  ill  may  spare  a  pursuivant, 

The  only  men  that  safe  can  ride 

Mine  errands  on  the  Scottish  side : 

And  though  a  bishop  built  this  fort, 

Few  holy  brethren  here  resort; 

Even  our  good  chaplain,  as  I  ween. 

Since  our  last  siege  we  have  not  seen. 

The  mass  he  might  not  sing  or  say 

Upon  one  stinted  meal  a-day  ; 

So,  safe  he  sat  in  Durham  aisle, 

And  prayed  for  our  success  the  while. 

Our  Norham  vicar,  woe  betide. 

Is  all  too  well  in  case  to  ride ; 

The  priest  of  Shoreswood  —  he  could  rein 

The  wildest  war-horse  in  your  train, 

But  then  no  spearman  in  the  hall 

Will  sooner  swear,  or  stab,  or  brawl. 

Friar  John  of  Tillmouth  were  the  man; 

A  blithesome  brother  at  the  can, 

A  welcome  guest  in  hall  and  bower. 

He  knows  each  castle,  town,  and  tower, 

In  which  the  wine  and  ale  is  good, 

'Twixt  Newcastle  and  Holy-Rood. 

But  that  good  man,  as  ill  befalls, 

Hath  seldom  left  our  castle  walls, 

Since,  on  the  vigil  of  Saint  Bede, 

In  evil  hour  he  crossed  the  Tweed, 

To  teach  Dame  Alison  her  creed. 

Old  Bughtrig  found  him  with  his  wife, 


68      •  MARMION. 

And  John,  an  enemy  to  strife, 
Sans  frock  and  hood,  fled  for  liis  life. 
The  jealous  churl  hath  deeply  swore 
That,  if  again  he  venture  o'er, 
He  shall  shrieve  penitent  no  more. 
Little  he  loves  such  risks,  I  know. 
Yet  in  your  guard  perchance  will  go.' 


XXII. 

Young  Sclby,  at  the  fair  hall-board, 
Carved  to  his  uncle  and  tliat  lord, 
And  reverently  took  up  the  word : 
'  Kind  uncle,  woe  were  we  each  one, 
If  harm  should  hap  to  brother  John, 
He  is  a  man  of  mirthful  speech, 
Can  many  a  game  and  gambol  teach  ; 
Pull  well  at  tables  can  he  play. 
And  sweep  at  bowls  the  stake  away. 
None  can  a  lustier  carol  bawl, 
Tiie  needfullest  among  us  all, 
When  time  hangs  heavy  in  the  hall, 
And  snow  comes  thick  at  Christmas  tide, 
And  we  can  neither  hunt  nor  ride 
A  foray  on  the  Scottish  side. 
The  vowed  revenge  of  Bughtrig  rude 
May  end  in  worse  than  loss  of  hood. 
Let  Priar  John  in  safety  still 
In  chimney-corner  snore  his  fill, 
Koast  hissing  crabs,  or  flagons  swill ; 


THE   CASTLE.  69 

Last  iiig-lit,  to  NorliJiiii  there  canio  one 
Will  better  i>-ui(l(;  J^ord  iMarniioii.'  — 
'Nephew,'  ([uotli  Heron,  '  by  my  lay, 
Well  hast  thou  spoke ;  say  I'orth  thy  say.'  — 

XXIII. 

'  Here  is  a  holy  Palmer  eome, 

From  Salem  first,  and  last  from  Rome ; 

One  that  hath  kissed  the  blessed  tomb. 

And  visited  eaeh  holy  shrine 

In  Araby  and  Palestine ; 

On  hills  of  Armenie  hath  been, 

Where  Noah's  ark  may  yet  be  seen ; 

By  that  Red  Sea,  too,  hath  he  trod, 

Whieh  parted  at  the  Prophet's  rod ; 

In  Sinai's  wilderness  he  saw 

The  Mount  where  Israel  heard  the  law. 

Mid  thunder-dint,  and  Hashing  levin, 

And  shadows,  mists,  and  darkness,  given. 

He  shows  Saint  James's  cockle-shell. 

Of  fair  Montserrat,  too,  can  tell ; 

And  of  that  Grot  where  Olives  nod. 
Where,  darling  of  each  heart  and  eye, 
From  all  the  youth  of  Sicily, 

Saint  Eosalie  retired  to  God. 

XXIV. 

'  To  stout  Saint  George  of  Norwich  merry, 
Saint  Thomas,  too,  of  Canterbury, 


70  MARMION. 

Cutlibert  of  Durliani  and  Saint  Bede, 
For  his  sins'  pardon  hath  he  prayed. 
He  knows  the  passes  of  the  North, 
And  seeks  far  shrines  beyond  the  Forth ; 
Little  he  eats,  and  long  will  wake. 
And  drinks  but  of  the  stream  or  lake. 
This  were  a  guide  o'er  moor  and  dale ; 
But  when  our  John  hath  quaffed  his  ale, 
As  little  as  the  wind  that  blows. 
And  warms  itself  against  his  nose. 
Kens  he,  or  cares,  which  way  he  goes.'  — 


XXV. 

'  Gramercy  ! '  quoth  Lord  Marmion, 
'  Full  loath  were  1  that  Friar  John, 
That  venerable  man,  for  me 
Were  placed  in  fear  or  jeopardy  : 
If  this  same  Palmer  will  me  lead 

From  hence  to  Holy-Rood, 
Like  his  good  saint,  I  '11  pay  his  meed, 
Instead  of  cockle-shell  or  bead. 

With  angels  fair  and  good. 
I  love  such  holy  ramblers ;   still 
They  know  to  charm  a  weary  hill 

With  song,  romance,  or  lay  : 
Some  jovial  tale,  or  glee,  or  jest, 
Some  lying  legend,  at  the  least. 

They  bring  to  cheer  the  way.'  — 


THE   CASTLE.  71 


XXVI. 

*  Ah  !  noble  sir,'  young  Solhy  said, 

And  finger  on  liis  lip  he  laid, 

*This  man  knows  much,  perchance  e'en  more 

Than  he  could  learn  by  holy  lore. 

Still  to  himself  he  's  muttering, 

And  shrinks  as  at  some  unseen  thing. 

Last  night  we  listened  at  his  cell; 

Strange  sounds  we  heard,  and,  sooth  to  tell, 

He  murmured  on  till  morn,  howe'er 

No  living  mortal  could  be  near. 

Sometimes  I  thought  I  heard  it  plain, 

As  other  voices  spoke  again. 

I  cannot  tell  —  I  like  it  not  — 

Friar  John  hath  told  us  it  is  wrote. 

No  conscience  clear  and  void  of  wrons: 

Can  rest  awake  and  pray  so  long. 

Himself  still  sleeps  before  his  beads 

Have  marked  ten  aves  and  two  creeds.'  — 


XXVII. 

'Let  pass,'  quoth  Marmion ;   'by  my  fay, 
This  man  shall  guide  me  on  my  way. 
Although  the  great  arch-fiend  and  he 
Had  sworn  themselves  of  company. 
So  please  you,  gentle  youth,  to  call 
This  Palmer  to  the  castle-hall.' 


72  MARMION. 

The  summoned  Palmer  came  in  place ; 
His  sable  cowl  o'erhung  his  face; 
In  his  black  mantle  was  he  clad. 
With  Peter's  keys,  in  cloth  of  red, 

On  his  broad  shoulders  Avrought; 
The  scallop  shell  his  cap  did  deck; 
The  crucifix  around  his  neck 

Was  from  Loretto  brought ; 
His  sandals  wei'e  with  travel  tore. 
Staff,  budget,  bottle,  scrip,  he  wore; 
The  faded  palm-branch  in  his  hand 
Showed  pilgrim  from  the  Holy  Land. 


XXVIII. 

Whenas  the  Palmer  came  in  hall, 

Nor  lord  nor  knight  was  there  more  tall, 

Or  had  a  statelier  step  withal, 

Or  looked  more  high  and  keen ; 
For  no  saluting  did  he  wait. 
But  strode  across  the  hall  of  state. 
And  fronted  Marmion  where  he  sate. 

As  he  his  peer  had  been. 
But  his  gaunt  frame  was  worn  with  toil ; 
His  cheek  was  sunk,  alas  the  while  ! 
And  when  he  struggled  at  a  smile 

His  eye  looked  haggard  wild  : 
Poor  wretch,  the  mother  that  him  bare. 
If  she  had  been  in  presence  tliere, 


74  MARMION. 

In  his  wan  face  and  sunLiirnt  hair 

She  had  not  known  her  chihl. 
Danger,  long  travel,  want,  or  woe, 
Soon  change  the  form  that  best  we  know  — 
Por  deadly  fear  can  time  outgo, 
And  blanch  at  once  the  hair ; 
Hard  toil  can  roughen  form  and  face, 
And  want  can  quench  the  eye's  bright  grace, 
Nor  does  old  age  a  wrinkle  trace 

More  deeply  than  despair. 
Happy  whom  none  of  these  befall. 
But  this  poor  Palmer  knew  them  all. 


XXIX. 

Lord  Marmion  then  his  boon  did  ask ; 
The  Palmer  took  on  him  the  task, 
So  he  would  march  with  morning  tide, 
To  Scottish  court  to  be  his  guide. 
'  But  I  have  solemn  vows  to  pay, 
And  may  not  linger  by  the  way. 

To  fair  Saint  Andrew's  bound. 
Within  the  ocean-cave  to  pray. 
Where  good  Saint  Eule  his  holy  lay, 
From  midnight  to  the  dawn  of  day, 

Sung  to  the  billows'  sound  ; 
Thence  to  Saint  Pillan's  blessed  well. 
Whose  spring  can  frenzied  dreams  dispel, 

And  the  crazed  brain  restore. 


THE   CASTLE.  75 

Saint  Mary  g'rant  that  cave  or  spriiif? 
Could  back  to  peace  my  bosom  bring, 
Or  bid  it  throb  no  more ! ' 


XXX. 

And  now  the  midnight  drauglit  of  sleep, 
Wlicre  wine  and  spices  richly  steep, 
In  massive  bowl  of  silver  deep, 

The  page  presents  on  knee. 
Lord  Marmiou  drank  a  fair  good  rest, 
The  captain  pledged  his  noble  guest. 
The  cup  went  through  among  the  rest, 

Who  drained  it  merrily  ; 
Alone  the  Palmer  passed  it  by. 
Though  Selby  pressed  him  courteously. 
This  was  a  sign  the  feast  was  o'er ; 
It  hushed  the  merry  wassail  roar, 

The  minstrels  ceased  to  sound. 
Soon  in  the  castle  nought  was  heard 
But  the  slow  footstep  of  the  guard 

Pacing  his  sober  round. 


XXXI. 

With  early  dawn  Lord  Marmion  rose : 
And  first  the  chapel  doors  unclose ; 
Then,  after  morning  rites  were  done  — 
A  hasty  mass  from  Friar  John  — 


76  MARMION. 

And  kniglit  aiul  squii-e  had  broke  tlicir  fast 

On  rich  substantial  repast, 

Lord  Marmion's  bugles  blew  to  horse. 

Then  carae  the  stirrup-cup  in  course: 

Between  the  baron  and  his  host, 

No  point  of  courtesy  was  lost ; 

High  thanks  were  by  Lord  Marniion  paid, 

Solemn  excuse  the  captain  made, 

Till,  filing  from  the  gate,  had  passed 

That  noble  train,  their  lord  the  last. 

Then  loudly  rung  the  trumpet  call ; 

Thundered  the  cannon  from  the  wall, 

And  shook  the  Scottish  shore ; 
Around  the  castle  eddied  slow 
Volumes  of  smoke  as  white  as  snow 

And  hid  its  turrets  hoar, 
Till  they  rolled  forth  upon  the  air, 
And  met  the  river  breezes  there, 
Which  gave  again  the  prospect  fair. 


CANTO    SECOND. 

THE   CONVENT. 


sx.imt 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO   SECOND. 


TO   THE   REV.   JOHN    MARRIOT,    A.M. 


Ashestiel,  Ettrick  Forest. 

The  scenes  are  desert  now  and  bare, 

Where  flourished  once  a  forest  fair, 

"When  these  waste  glens  witli  copse  were  lined, 

And  peopled  Avith  the  hart  and  hind. 

Yon  thorn  —  perchance  whose  prickly  spears 

Have  fenced  him  for  three  hundred  years, 

While  fell  around  his  g-reen  compeers  — 

Yon  lonely  thorn,  would  he  could  tell 

The  changes  of  his  parent  dell, 

Since  he,  so  gray  and  stubborn  now, 

Waved  in  each  breeze  a  sapling  bongh ! 

Would  he  could  tell  how  deep  the  shade 

A  thousand  mingled  branches  made ; 


80  M ARM  I  ON. 

How  broad  the  shadows  of  the  oak, 
How  clung-  the  rowan  to  the  rock. 
And  through  the  foliage  showed  his  head, 
With  narrow  leaves  and  berries  red ; 
What  pines  on  every  mountain  sprung, 
O'er  every  dell  what  birches  hung, 
In  every  breeze  what  aspens  shook, 
What  alders  shaded  every  brook ! 

*  Here,  in  my  shade,'  methinks  he  'd  say, 
'  The  mighty  stag  at  noontide  lay  ; 
The  wolf  I  've  seen,  a  fiercer  game,  — 
The  neighboring  dingle  bears  his  name,  — 
With  lurching  step  around  me  prowl. 
And  stop,  against  the  moon  to  howl ; 
The  mountain-boar,  on  battle  set. 
His  tusks  upon  my  stem  Avould  whet ; 
While  doe,  and  roe,  and  red-deer  good, 
Have  bounded  by  through  gay  greenwood. 
Then  oft  from  Newark's  riven  tower 
Sallied  a  Scottish  monarch's  power: 
A  thousand  vassals  mustered  round. 
With  horse,  and  hawk,  and  horn,  and  hound ; 
And  I  might  see  the  youth  intent 
Guard  every  pass  with  ci'ossbow  bent ; 
And  through  the  brake  the  rangers  stalk, 
And  falconers  hold  the  ready  hawk ; 
And  foresters,  in  greeuAvood  trim, 
Lead  in  the  leash  the  gazehounds  grim, 
Attentive,  as  the  bratchet's  bay 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  SECOND.        81 

From  ihc  dark  covert  drove  the  prey, 
To  slip  them  as  he  broke  away. 
The  startled  quarry  bounds  amain, 
As  fast  the  gallant  greyhounds  strain; 
Whistles  the  arrow  from  the  bow. 
Answers  the  harquebuss  below ; 
While  all  the  rocking  hills  reply 
To  hoof-clang,  hound,  and  hunters'  cry, 
And  bugles  ringing  lightsomely.' 

Of  such  proud  huntings  many  tales 
Yet  linger  in  our  lonely  dales. 
Up  pathless  Ettrick  and  on  Yarrow, 
Where  erst  the  outlaw  drew  his  arrow. 
But  not  more  blithe  that  sylvan  court. 
Than  we  have  been  at  humbler  sport ; 
Though  small  our  pomp  and  mean  our  game, 
Our  mirth,  dear  Marriot,  was  the  same. 
Eemember'st  thou  my  greyhounds  true? 
O'er  holt  or  hill  there  never  flew, 
From  slip  or  leash  there  never  sprang, 
More  fleet  of  foot  or  sure  of  fang. 
Nor  dull,  between  each  merry  chase. 
Passed  by  the  intermitted  space; 
For  we  had  fair  resource  in  store. 
In  Classic  and  in  Gothic  lore : 
We  marked  each  memorable  scene. 
And  held  poetic  talk  between; 
Nor  hill,  nor  brook,  we  paced  along. 
But  had  its  legend  or  its  song. 


82  MARMION. 

All  silent  now  —  for  now  are  still 
Thy  bowers,  untenanted  Bowhill ! 
No  longer  from  thy  mountains  dun 
The  yeoman  hears  the  well-known  gun, 
And  while  his  honest  heart  glows  warm 
At  thought  of  his  paternal  farm, 
Eound  to  his  mates  a  brimmer  tills, 
And  drinks,  '  The  Chieftain  of  the  Hills  !  ' 
No  fairy  forms,  in  Yarrow's  bowers, 
Trip  o'er  the  walks  or  tend  the  flowers, 
Fair  as  the  elves  whom  Janet  saw 
By  moonlight  dance  on  Carterhaugh; 
No  youthful  Baron  's  left  to  grace 
The  Forest-Sheriff's  lonely  chace, 
And  ape,  in  manly  step  and  tone, 
The  majesty  of  Oberon  : 
And  she  is  gone  whose  lovely  face 
Is  but  her  least  and  lowest  grace  ; 
Though  if  to  Sylphid  Queen  't  were  given 
To  show  our  earth  the  charms  of  heaven, 
She  could  not  glide  along  the  air 
With  form  more  light  or  face  more  fair. 
No  more  the  widow's  deafened  ear 
Grows  quick  that  lady's  step  to  hear : 
At  noontide  she  expects  her  not, 
Nor  busies  her  to  trim  the  cot ; 
Pensive  she  turns  her  humming  wheel, 
Or  pensive  cooks  her  orphans'  meal, 
Yet  blesses,  ere  she  deals  their  bread, 
The  gentle  hand  by  which  they  're  fed. 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  SECOND.       83 

From  Yair —  whicli  hills  so  closdv  bind. 
Scarce  can  the  Tweed  his  passaj^e  find, 
Thou^-h  luueli  he  fret,  and  chafe,  and  toil, 
Till  all  his  eddyini>'  enrrcnts  boil  — 
Her  long-descended  lord  is  gone, 
And  left  us  by  the  stream  alone. 
And  much  I  miss  those  sportive  boys. 
Companions  of  my  mountain  joys, 
Just  at  the  age  'twixt  boy  and  youth, 
When  thought  is  speech,  and  speech  is  truth. 
Close  to  my  side  with  what  deliglit 
They  pressed  to  hear  of  Wallace  wight, 
When,  pointing  to  his  airy  mound, 
I  called  his  ramparts  holy  ground  ! 
Kindled  their  brows  to  hear  me  speak ; 
And  I  have  smiled,  to  feel  my  cheek, 
Despite  the  difference  of  our  years, 
Eeturn  again  the  glow  of  theirs. 
Ah,  happy  boys  !    such  feelings  pure. 
They  will  not,  cannot  long  endure; 
Condemned  to  stem  the  world's  rude  tide. 
You  may  not  linger  by  the  side  ; 
For  Fate  shall  thrust  you  from  the  shore. 
And  Passion  ply  the  sail  and  oar. 
Yet  cherish  the  remendjrance  still 
Of  the  lone  mountain  and  the  rill ; 
For  trust,  dear  boys,  the  time  will  come, 
When  fiercer  transport  shall  be  dumb, 
And  you  will  think  right  frequently. 
But,  well  I  hope,  without  a  sigh. 


84  MARMION. 

On  the  free  hours  that  we  liave  spent 
Together  on  the  brown  hill's  bent. 


"When,  musing  on  companions  gone, 
We  doubly  feel  ourselves  alone, 
Something,  my  friend,  we  yet  may  gain; 
There  is  a  pleasure  in  this  pain  : 
It  soothes  the  love  of  lonely  rest. 
Deep  in  each  gentler  heart  impressed. 
'T  is  silent  amid  worldly  toils, 
And  stifled  soon  by  mental  broils ; 
But,  in  a  bosom  thus  prepared. 
Its  still  small  voice  is  often  heard, 
AVhispering  a  mingled  sentiment 
'Twixt  resignation  and  content. 
Oft  in  my  mind  such  thoughts  awake 
By  lone  Saint  Mary's  silent  lake  : 
Thou  know'st  it  well,  —  nor  fen  nor  sedge 
Pollute  the  pure  lake's  crystal  edge  ; 
Abrupt  and  sheer,  the  mountains  sink 
At  once  upon  the  level  brink. 
And  just  a  trace  of  silver  sand 
Marks  where  the  water  meets  the  land. 
Par  in  the  mirror,  bright  and  blue, 
Each  hill's  huge  outline  you  may  view; 
Shaggy  with  heath,  but  lonely  bare. 
Nor  tree,  nor  bush,  nor  brake,  is  there. 
Save  where  of  land  you  slender  line 
Bears  thwart  the  lake  the  scattered  pine. 


INTRODUCTION  TO  CANTO  SECOND.       85 

Yet  even  this  ii.ikoducss  has  power, 

And  aids  the  feeling  of  the  hour  : 

Nor  thieket,  dell,  nor  copse  you  spy, 

Where  living  thing  concealed  might  lie ; 

Nor  point  retiring  hides  a  dell 

Where  swain  or  woodman  lone  might  dwell. 

There  's  nothing  left  to  fancy's  guess, 

You  see  that  all  is  loneliness  : 

And  silence  aids  —  though  the  steep  hills 

Send  to  the  lake  a  thousand  rills ; 

In  summer  tide  so  soft  they  weep. 

The  sound  but  lulls  the  ear  asleep  ; 

Your  horse's  hoof-tread  sounds  too  rude, 

So  stilly  is  the  solitude. 

Nought  living  meets  the  eye  or  ear, 
But  well  I  Aveen  the  dead  are  near ; 
Por  though,  in  feudal  strife,  a  foe 
Hath  laid  Our  Lady's  chapel  low, 
Yet  still,  beneath  the  hallowed  soil. 
The  peasant  rests  him  from  his  toil, 
And  dying  bids  his  bones  be  laid 
Where  erst  his  simple  fathers  prayed. 

If  age  had  tamed  the  passions'  strife. 
And  fate  had  cut  my  ties  to  life, 
Here  have  I  thought  't  were  sweet  to  dwell, 
And  rear  again  the  chaplain's  cell, 
Like  that  same  peaceful  hermitage, 
Where  Milton  longed  to  spend  his  age. 


86  MARMION. 

'T  were  sweet  to  mark  the  setting  day 

On  Bourhope's  lonely  top  decay, 

And,  as  it  faint  and  feeble  died 

On  the  broad  lake  and  mountain's  side, 

To  say,  '  Thus  pleasures  fade  away  ; 

Youth,  talents,  beauty,  thus  decay, 

And  leave  us  dark,  I'orlorn,  and  gray  ; ' 

Then  gaze  on  Dryhope's  ruined  tower, 

And  think  on  Yarrow's  faded  Flower  : 

And  when  that  mountain-sound  I  heard, 

Which  bids  us  be  for  storm  prepared, 

The  distant  rustling  of  his  wings, 

As  up  his  force  the  Tempest  brings, 

'T  were  sweet,  ere  yet  his  terrors  rave, 

To  sit  upon  the  Wizard's  grave, 

That  Wizard  Priest's  whose  bones  are  thrust 

Prom  company  of  holy  dust ; 

On  which  no  sunbeam  ever  shines  — 

So  superstition's  creed  divines  — 

Thence  view  the  lake  with  sullen  roar 

Heave  her  broad  billows  to  the  shore ; 

And  mark  the  wild-swans  mount  the  gale, 

Spread  wide  through  mist  their  snowy  sail, 

And  ever  stoop  again,  to  lave 

Their  bosoms  on  the  surging  wave  ; 

Then,  when  against  the  driving  hail 

No  longer  might  my  plaid  avail, 

Back  to  my  lonely  home  retire. 

And  light  my  lamp  and  trim  my  fire ; 

There  ponder  o'er  some  mystic  lay, 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  SECOND.      87 

Till  the  wild  talc  had  all  its  sway, 

And,  in  the  bittern's  distant  shriek, 

I  heard  unearthly  voices  speak, 

And  thought  the  Wizard  Priest  was  come 

To  claim  again  his  ancient  home  ! 

And  bade  my  busy  fancy  range, 

To  frame  him  fitting  shape  and  strange, 

Till  from  the  task  my  brow  I  cleared. 

And  smiled  to  think  that  I  had  feared. 

But  chief  't  were  sw^eet  to  think  such  life  — 
Though  but  escape  from  fortune's  strife  — 
Something  most  matchless  good  and  wise, 
A  gTeat  and  grateful  sacrifice. 
And  deem  each  hour  to  musing  given 
A  step  upon  the  road  to  heaven. 

Yet  him  whose  heart  is  ill  at  ease 
Such  peaceful  solitudes  displease ; 
He  loves  to  drown  his  bosom's  jar 
Amid  the  elemental  war  : 
And  my  black  Palmer's  choice  had  been 
Some  ruder  and  more  savage  scene. 
Like  that  which  frowns  round  dark  Loch-skene. 
There  eagles  scream  from  isle  to  shore ; 
Down  all  the  rocks  the  torrents  roar ; 
O'er  the  black  waves  incessant  driven. 
Dark  mists  infect  the  summer  heaven ; 
Through  the  rude  barriers  of  the  lake. 
Away  its  hurrying  waters  break. 


88  M ARM  I  ON. 

Faster  and  whiter  dasli  and  curl, 
Till  down  yon  dark  abyss  they  hurl. 
Eises  the  t'og-smoke  white  as  snow, 
Thunders  the  viewless  stream  below, 
Diving,  as  if  condemned  to  lave 
Some  demon's  subterranean  cave, 
Who,  prisoned  by  enchanter's  spell, 
Shakes  tlie  dark  rock  with  groan  aud  yell. 
And  well  that  Palmer's  form  and  mien 
Had  suited  with  the  stormy  scene, 
Just  on  the  edge,  straining  his  ken 
To  view  the  bottom  of  the  den, 
Where,  deep  deep  down,  and  far  within, 
Toils  with  the  rocks  the  roaring  linn; 
Then,  issuing  forth  one  foamy  wave. 
And  wheeling  round  the  Giant's  Grave, 
White  as  the  snowy  charger's  tail. 
Drives  down  the  pass  of  Moffatdale. 

Harriot,  thy  harp,  on  Isis  strung. 
To  many  a  Border  theme  has  rung : 
Then  list  to  me,  and  thou  shalt  know 
Of  this  mysterious  Man  of  Woe. 


CANTO   SECOND. 

THE   CONVENT. 


The  breeze  which  swept  away  the  smoke 

Round  Norliam  Castle  rolled, 
When  all  the  loud  artillery  spoke 
With  lightnino--flash  and  thunder-stroke. 
As  Marmion  left  the  hold, — 


90  MARMtON. 

It  curled  not  Tweed  alone,  that  bi'eeze, 
For,  far  upon  Northumbrian  seas. 

It  freshly  blew  and  strong. 
Where,  from  high  Whitby's  cloistered  pile, 
Bound  to  Saint  Cuthbert's  Holy  Isle, 

It  bore  a  bark  along. 
Upon  the  gale  she  stooped  her  side. 
And  bounded  o'er  the  swelling  tide. 

As  she  were  dancing  home  ; 
The  merry  seamen  laughed  to  see 
Their  gallant  ship  so  lustily 

Furrow  the  green  sea-foam. 
Much  joyed  they  in  their  honored  freight ; 
For  on  the  deck,  in  chair  of  state, 
The  Abbess  of  Saint  Hilda  placed. 
With  five  fair  nuns,  the  galley  graced. 


II. 

'T  was  sweet  to  see  these  holy  maids. 
Like  birds  escaped  to  greenwood  shades, 

Their  first  flight  from  the  cage, 
How  timid,  and  how  curious  too, 
For  all  to  them  was  strange  and  new. 
And  all  the  common  sights  they  view 

Their  wonderment  engage. 
One  eyed  the  shrouds  and  swelling  sail, 

With  many  a  benedicite; 
One  at  the  rippling  surge  grew  pale. 

And  would  for  terror  pray. 


THE  CONVENT.  91 

Then  slirickcd  l)crausR  the  sca-doi;-  iiig-h 
His  round  black  licad  and  sparkling  eye 

Keared  o'er  tlu;  foaming  spray  ; 
And  one  would  still  adjust  her  veil, 
Disordered  by  the  summer  gah;, 
Perchance  lest  some  more  worldly  eye 
Her  dedicated  charms  might  spy, 
Perchance  because  such  action  graced 
Her  fair-turned  arm  and  slender  waist.    . 
Light  was  each  simple  bosom  there, 
Save  two,  who  ill  might  pleasure  share,  — 
The  Abbess  and  the  Novice  Clare. 


III. 

The  Abbess  was  of  noble  blood, 
But  early  took  the  veil  and  hood, 
Ere  upon  life  she  cast  a  look. 
Or  knew  the  world  that  she  forsook. 
Fair  too  she  was,  and  kind  had  been 
As  she  was  fair,  but  ne'er  had  seen 
For  her  a  timid  lover  sigh. 
Nor  knew  the  influence  of  her  eye. 
Love  to  her  ear  was  but  a  name. 
Combined  with  vanity  and  shame ; 
Her  hopes,  her  fears,  her  joys,  were  all 
Bounded  within  the  cloister  wall ; 
The  deadliest  sin  her  mind  could  reach 
Was  of  monastic  rule  the  breach, 
And  her  ambition's  highest  aim 


92  MARMION. 

To  emulate  Saint  Hilda's  fame. 
For  this  she  gave  her  ample  dower 
To  raise  the  convent's  eastern  tower ; 
For  this,  with  carving-  rare  and  quaint, 
She  decked  the  chapel  of  the  saint, 
And  gave  the  relic-shrine  of  cost. 
With  ivory  and  gems  embossed. 
The  poor  lier  convent's  bounty  blest. 
The  pilgrim  in  its  halls  found  rest. 


IV. 

Blade  was  her  garb,  her  rigid  rule 
Eeformed  on  Benedictine  school ; 
Her  cheek  Avas  pale,  her  form  was  spare ; 
Vigils  and  penitence  austere 
Had  early  quenched  the  light  of  youth  : 
But  gentle  was  the  dame,  n\  sooth  ; 
Though,  vain  of  lier  religious  sway, 
She  loved  to  see  her  maids  obey, 
Yet  nothing  stern  was  she  in  cell, 
And  the  nuns  loved  their  Abbess  Avell. 
Sad  was  this  voyage  to  the  dame ; 
Summoned  to  Lindisfarne,  she  came. 
There,  with  Saint  Cuthbert's  Abbot  old 
And  Tynemouth's  Prioress,  to  hold 
A  chapter  of  Saint  Benedict, 
For  inquisition  stern  and  strict 
On  two  apostates  from  the  faith. 
And,  if  need  were,  to  doom  to  death. 


94  MARMION. 


Nought  say  I  here  of  Sister  Clare, 
Save  this,  that  she  was  young  and  fair ; 
As  yet  a  novice  unprofessed. 
Lovely  and  gentle,  but  distressed. 
She  was  betrothed  to  one  now  dead, 
Or  worse,  who  had  dishonored  fled. 
Her  kinsmen  bade  her  give  her  hand 
To  one  wlio  loved  her  for  her  land  ; 
Herself,  almost  heart-broken  now. 
Was  bent  to  take  the  vestal  vow, 
And  shroud  within  Saint  Hilda's  gloom 
Her  blasted  hopes  and  withered  bloom. 


VI. 

She  sate  upon  the  galley's  prow. 

And  seemed  to  mark  the  waves  below  ; 

Nay,  seemed,  so  fixed  her  look  and  eye, 

To  count  them  as  they  glided  by. 

She  saw  them  not  —  'twas  seeming  all  — 

Par  other  scene  her  thoughts  recall,  — 

A  sun-scorched  desert,  waste  and  bare. 

Nor  waves  nor  breezes  murmured  there ; 

There  saw  she  where  some  careless  hand 

O'er  a  dead  corpse  had  heaped  the  sand, 

To  hide  it  till  the  jackals  come 

To  tear  it  from  the  scanty  tomb.  — 


THE   CONVENT.  95 


o 


See  what  a  woful  look  was  given, 
As  she  raised  up  her  eyes  to  heaven ! 


VII. 

Lovely,  and  gentle,  and  distressed  — 

These  eliarms  might  tame  the  iiereest  breast : 

Harpers  have  sung  and  poets  told 

That  he,  in  fury  uncontrolled, 

The  shaggy  monarch  of  the  wood, 

Before  a  virgin,  fair  and  good. 

Hath  pacified  his  savage  mood. 

But  passions  in  the  human  frame 

Oft  put  tlie  lion's  rage  to  shame ; 

And  jealousy,  by  dark  intrigue, 

With  sordid  avarice  in  league. 

Had  practised  with  their  bowl  and  knife 

Against  the  mourner's  harndess  life. 

This  crime  Avas  charged  .'gainst  those  who  lay 

Prisoned  in  Cuthbert's  islet  gray. 


VIII. 

And  now  the  vessel  skirts  the  strand 
Of  mountainous  Northundjerland ; 
Towns,  towers,  and  halls  successive  rise. 
And  catch  the  nuns'  delighted  eyes. 
Monk-Wearmoutii  soon  behind  them  lay, 
And  Tynemouth's  priory  and  bay  ; 


96  MARMION. 

They  marked  amid  her  trees  th.e  hall 

Of  lofty  Seaton-Delaval  ; 

They  saw  the  Blythe  and  Wansbeck  floods 

Eusli  to  the  sea  through  sounding  woods ; 

They  passed  the  tower  of  Widderington, 

Mother  of  many  a  valiant  son  ; 

At  Coquet-isle  their  beads  they  tell 

To  the  good  saint  who  owned  the  cell ; 

Then  did  the  Alne  attention  claim, 

And  Warkworth,  proud  of  Percy's  name  ; 

And  next  tliey  crossed  tlieraselves  to  hear 

Tlie  whitening  breakers  sound  so  near. 

Where,  boiling  through  the  rocks,  they  roar 

On  Dunstanborough's  caverned  shore  ; 

Thy  tower,  proud  Bamborough,  marked  they  there, 

King  Ida's  castle,  huge  and  square. 

From  its  tall  rock  look  grindy  down, 

And  on  the  swelling  ocean  frown ; 

Then  from  the  coast  they  bore  away. 

And  reached  the  Holy  Island's  bay. 


IX. 


The  tide  did  now  its  flood-mark  gain. 
And  girdled  in  the  Saint's  domain  ; 
For,  with  the  flow  and  ebb,  its  style 
Varies  fi-om  continent  to  isle : 
Dry-shod,  o'er  sands,  twice  every  day 
The  pilgrims  to  the  shrine  find  way  ; 
Twice  every  day  the  waves  eflacc 


THE  CONVENT.  97 

Of  staves  and  sandalled  feet  tlic  trace. 
As  to  the  port  the  gulley  flew, 
Higher  and  higher  rose  to  view 
The  castle  with  its  battled  walls, 
The  ancient  monastery's  halls, 
A  solemn,  huge,  and  dark-red  pile. 
Placed  on  the  margin  of  the  isle. 


In  Saxon  strength  that  abbey  frowned, 
With  massive  arches  broad  and  round. 

That  rose  alternate,  row  and  row. 

On  ponderous  columns,  short  and  low, 
Built  ere  the  art  was  known. 

By  pointed  aisle  and  shafted  stalk. 

The  arcades  of  an  alleyed  walk 
To  emulate  in  stone. 
On  the  deep  walls  the  heathen  Dane 
Had  poured  his  impious  rage  in  vain ; 
And  needful  was  such  strength  to  these. 
Exposed  to  the  tempestuous  seas. 
Scourged  by  the  winds'  eternal  sway. 
Open  to  rovers  fierce  as  they, 
Which  could  twelve  hundred  years  withstand 
Winds,  waves,  and  northern  pirates'  hand. 
Not  but  that  portions  of  the  pile, 
Kebuilded  in  a  later  style, 
Showed  where  the  spoiler's  hand  had  been ; 
Not  but  the  wasting  sea-breeze  keen 


98  MARMION. 

Had  worn  the  pillar's  carving  quaint, 
And  mouldered  iu  his  niche  the  saint, 
And  rounded  with  consuming  power 
The  pointed  angles  of  each  toAver ; 
Yet  still  entire  the  abbey  stood. 
Like  veteran,  worn,  but  unsubdued. 


XI. 

Soon  as  they  neared  his  turrets  strong. 
The  maidens  raised  Saint  Hilda's  song. 
And  with  the  sea-wave  and  the  wind 
Their  voices,  sweetly  shrill,  combined, 

And  made  harmonious  close  ; 
Then,  answering  from  the  sandy  shore. 
Half-drowned  amid  the  breakers'  roar, 

According  chorus  rose : 
Down  to  the  haven  of  the  Isle 
The  monks  and  nuns  in  order  file 

From  Cuthbert's  cloisters  grim ; 
Banner,  and  cross,  and  relics  there, 
To  meet  Saint  Hilda's  maids,  they  bare; 
And,  as  they  caught  the  sounds  on  air. 

They  echoed  back  the  hymn. 
The  islanders  in  joyous  mood 
Rushed  emulously  through  the  flood 

To  hale  the  bark  to  land ; 
Conspicuous  by  her  veil  and  hood. 
Signing  the  cross,  the  Abbess  stood, 

And  blessed  them  with  her  hand. 


THE   CONVENT.  99 


XII. 

Suppose  we  now  the  welcome  said, 
Suppose  the  couvent  banquet  made  : 

All  through  the  holy  dome, 
Through  cloister,  aisle,  and  gallery, 
Wherever  vestal  maid  might  pry. 
Nor  risk  to  meet  unhallowed  eye, 

The  stranger  sisters  roam  ; 
Till  fell  the  evening  damp  with  dew. 
And  the  sharp  sea-breeze  coldly  blew, 
For  there  even  summer  night  is  chill. 
Then,  having  strayed  and  gazed  their  fill. 

They  closed  around  the  fire ; 
And  all,  in  turn,  essayed  to  paint 
The  rival  merits  of  their  saint, 

A  theme  that  ne'er  can  itire 
A  holy  maid,  for  be  it  known 
That  their  saint's  honor  is  their  own. 


XIII. 

Then  Whitby's  nuns  exulting  told 
How  to  their  house  three  barons  bold 

Must  menial  service  do, 
While  horns  blow  out  a  note  of  shame, 
And  monks  cry,  '  Ke  upon  your  name  ! 
In  wrath,  for  loss  of  sylvan  game, 

Saint  Hilda's  priest  ye  slew.'  — 


100  MARMION. 

'  This,  on  Ascension-day,  each  year. 
While  laboring  on  our  harbor-pier, 
Must  Herbert,  Bruce,  and  Percy  hear.' 


They  told  how  in  their  convent-cell 
A  Saxon  princess  once  did  dwell, 
The  lovely  Edelfled ; 


THE   CONVENT.  101 

And  how,  of  thousand  snakes,  each  one 
Was  changed  into  a  coil  of  stone 

When  holy  Hilda  prayed ; 
Tliemselves,  witliin  tlioir  holy  bound, 
Their  stony  folds  had  often  found. 
They  told  how  sca-fowls'  pinions  fail, 
As  over  Whitby's  towers  they  sail, 
And,  sinking  down,  with  flutterings  faint, 
They  do  their  homage  to  the  saint. 


XIV. 

Nor  did  Saint  Cuthbert's  daughters  fail 

To  vie  with  these  in  holy  tale ; 

His  body's  resting-place,  of  old. 

How  oft  their  patron  changed,  they  told  ; 

How,  Avhen  tlie  rude  Dane  burned  their  pile, 

The  monks  fled  forth  from  Holy  Isle ; 

O'er  Northern  mountain,  marsh,  and  moor. 

From  sea  to  sea,  from  shore  to  shore. 

Seven  years  Saint  Cuthbert's  corpse  they  bore. 

They  rested  them  in  fair  Melrose  ; 
But  thougli,  alive,  he  loved  it  well, 

Not  there  his  relics  might  repose 
For,  wondrous  tale  to  tell ! 

In  his  stone  coffin  forth  he  rides, 

A  ponderous  bark  for  river  tides. 

Yet  light  as  gossamer  it  glides 
Downward  to  Tilmouth  cell. 


102  MARMION. 

Nor  long  was  liis  abiding  there, 
For  southward  did  the  saint  repair ; 
Chester-le-Street  and  Eipon  saw 
His  holy  corpse  ere  Wardilaw 

Hailed  him  Avith  joy  and  fear  ; 
And,  after  many  wanderings  past, 
He  phose  his  lordly  seat  at  last 
Where  his  cathedral,  huge  and  vast, 

Looks  down  upon  the  Wear. 
There,  deep  in  Durham's  Gothic  shade, 
His  relics  are  in  secret  laid  ; 

But  none  may  know  the  place, 
Save  of  his  holiest  servants  three. 
Deep  sworn  to  solemn  secrecy, 

Who  share  that  wondrous  grace. 


XV. 

Who  may  his  miracles  declare  ? 

Even  Scotland's  dauntless  king  and  heir  — 

Although  with  them  they  led 
Galwegians,  wild  as  ocean's  gale, 
And  Loden's  knights,  all  sheathed  in  mail. 
And  the  bold  men  of  Teviotdale  — 

Before  his  standard  fled. 
'T  was  he,  to  vindicate  his  reign, 
Edged  Alfred's  falchion  on  the  Dane, 
And  turned  the  Conqueror  back  again, 
When,  with  his  Norman  bowyer  band. 
He  came  to  waste  Northumberland. 


THE  CONVENT.  103 


XVI. 

But  fain  Saint  Hilda's  nuns  would  learn 
If  on  a  rock,  by  Lindisfarne, 
Saint  Cuthbert  sits,  and  toils  to  frame 
The  sea-born  beads  that  bear  his  name : 
Such  tales  had  Whitby's  fishers  told. 
And  said  they  might  his  shape  behold, 

And  hear  his  anvil  sound  ; 
A  deadened  clang,  —  a  huge  dim  form, 
Seen  but,  and  heard,  when  gathering  storm 

And  night  were  closing  round. 
But  this,  as  tale  of  idle  fame. 
The  nuns  of  Lindisfarne  disclaim. 


XVII. 

While  round  the  fire  such  legends  go, 
Far  different  was  the  scene  of  woe 
Where,  in  a  secret  aisle  beneath, 
Council  was  held  of  life  and  death. 
It  was  more  dark  and  lone,  that  vault, 

Than  the  worst  dungeon  cell ; 
Old  Colwulf  built  it,  for  his  fault 
In  penitence  to  dwell, 
When  he  for  cowl  and  beads  laid  down 
The  Saxon  battle-axe  and  crown. 
This  den,  which,  chilling  every  sense 
Of  feeling,  hearing,  sight. 


104  MARMION. 

Was  called  the  Vault  of  Penitence, 

Excluding  air  and  lig'lit, 
Was  by  the  prelate  Sexhelm  made 
A  place  of  burial  for  such  dead 
As,  having  died  in  mortal  sin. 
Might  not  be  laid  the  church  within. 
'T  was  now  a  place  of  punishment ; 
Whence  if  so  loud  a  shriek  were  sent 

As  reached  the  upper  air, 
The  hearers  blessed  themselves,  and  said 
The  spirits  of  the  sinful  dead 

Bemoaned  their  torments  there. 


XVIII. 

But  though,  in  the  monastic  pile, 
Did  of  this  penitential  aisle 

Some  vague  tradition  go. 
Few  only,  save  the  Abbot,  knew 
Where  the  place  lay,  and  still  more  few 
Wei'e  those  who  had  from  him  the  clew 

To  that  dread  vault  to  go. 
Victim  and  executioner 
Were  blindfold  when  transported  there. 
In  low  dark  rounds  the  ai'ches  hung. 
From  the  rude  rock  the  side-walls  sprung  ; 
The  gravestones,  rudely  sculptured  o'er. 
Half  sunk  in  earth,  by  time  half  wore, 
Were  all  the  pavement  of  the  floor ; 


THE   CONVENT.  105 

The  mildew-drops  fell  one  by  one, 
With  tinkling  plash,  upon  the  stone. 
A  cresset,  in  an  iron  ehain, 
Which  served  to  light  this  drear  domain, 
Witli  damp  and  darkness  seemed  to  strive. 
As  if  it  scarce  might  keep  alive  ; 
And  yet  it  dimly  served  to  show 
The  awful  conclave  met  below. 


XIX. 

There,  met  to  doom  in  secrecy, 
Were  placed  the  heads  of  convents  three, 
All  servants  of  Saint  Benedict, 
The  statutes  of  whose  order  strict 

On  iron  table  lay  ; 
In  long  black  dress,  on  seats  of  stone. 
Behind  Avere  these  three  judges  shown 

By  the  pale  cresset's  ray. 
The  Abbess  of  Saint  Hilda's  there 
Sat  for  a  space  with  visage  bare, 
Until,  to  hide  her  bosom's  swell, 
And  tear-drops  that  for  pity  fell, 

She  closely  drew  her  veil ; 
Yon  shrouded  figure,  as  I  guess, 
By  her  proud  mien  and  flowing  dress. 
Is  Tynemouth's  haughty  Prioress, 

And  she  with  awe  looks  pale ; 
And  he,  that  ancient  man,  whose  sight 
Has  long  been  quenched  by  age's  night, 


106  MARMION. 

Upon  whose  Avriulcled  brow  alone 
Nor  rutli  nor  mercy's  trace  is  shown, 

Whose  look  is  hard  and  stern,  — 
Saint  Cuthbert's  Abbot  is  his  style, 
Por  sanctity  called  through  the  isle 

The  Saint  of  Lindisfarne. 


XX. 

Before  them  stood  a  guilty  pair; 
But,  though  an  equal  fate  they  share, 
Yet  one  alone  deserves  our  care. 
Her  sex  a  page's  dress  belied  ; 
The  cloak  and  doublet,  loosely  tied, 
Obscured  her  charms,  but  could  not  hide. 
Her  cap  down  o'er  her  face  she  drew ; 

And,  on  her  doublet  breast. 
She  tried  to  hide  the  badge  of  blue, 
Lord  Marmion's  falcon  crest. 
But,  at  the  prioress'  command, 
A  monk  undid  the  silken  band 

That  tied  her  tresses  fair. 
And  raised  the  bonnet  from  her  head. 
And  down  her  slender  form  they  spread 

In  ringlets  rich  and  rare. 
Constance  de  Beverley  they  know, 
Sister  professed  of  Fontevraud, 
Whom  the  Church  numbered  with  the  dead, 
For  broken  vows  and  convent  fled. 


108  MARMION. 


XXI. 


When  thus  her  face  was  given  to  view,  — 

Although  so  pallid  was  her  hue, 

It  did  a  ghastly  contrast  bear 

To  those  bright  ringlets  glistering  fair,  — 

Her  look  composed,  and  steady  eye, 

Bespoke  a  matchless  constancy; 

And  there  she  stood  so  calm  and  pale 

That,  but  her  breathing  did  not  fail. 

And  motion  slight  of  eye  and  head, 

And  of  her  bosom,  warranted 

That  neither  sense  nor  pulse  she  lacks, 

You  might  have  thought  a  form  of  wax, 

Wrought  to  the  very  life,  Avas  there ; 

So  still  she  was,  so  pale,  so  fair. 


XXII. 


Her  comrade  was  a  sordid  soul. 
Such  as  does  murder  for  a  meed  ; 

Who,  but  of  fear,  knows  no  control, 

Because  his  conscience,  seared  and  foul, 
Feels  not  the  import  of  his  deed ; 

One  whose  brute-feeling  ne'er  aspires 

Beyond  his  own  more  brute  desires. 

Such  tools  the  Tempter  ever  needs 

To  do  the  savagest  of  deeds  ; 


THE   CONVENT.  109 

Por  thorn  no  visioiied  terrors  daiuit, 
Their  iii<^'hts  no  fancied  spectres  haunt; 
One  fear  with  them,  of  all  most  base, 
The  fear  of  death,  alone  finds  place. 
This  wretch  was  clad  in  frock  and  cowl, 
And  shamed  not  loud  to  moan  and  howl, 
Plis  body  on  the  floor  to  dash, 
And  crouch,  like  hound  beneath  the  lash  ; 
While  his  mute  partner,  standing  near, 
Waited  her  doom  without  a  tear. 


XXIII. 

Yet  well  the  hickless  wretch  might  shriek, 
Well  miglit  her  paleness  terror  speak !  « 
For  there  were  seen  in  that  dark  wall 
Two  niches,  narrow,  deep,  and  tall ;  — 
Who  enters  at  such  grisl^r  door 
Shall  ne'er,  I  ween,  find  exit  more. 
In  each  a  slender  meal  was  laid. 
Of  roots,  of  water,  and  of  bread  ; 
By  each,  in  Benedictine  dress, 
Tavo  haggard  monks  stood  motionless, 
Who,  holding  higli  a  blazing  torch. 
Showed  the  grim  entrance  of  the  porch ; 
Reflecting  back  the  smoky  beam. 
The  dark-red  w^alls  and  arches  gleam. 
Hewn  stones  and  cement  were  displayed, 
And  building  tools  in  order  laid. 


no  M ARM  I  ON. 


XXIV. 


These  executioners  were  chose 
As  men  who  were  with  mankind  foes, 
And,  with  despite  and  envy  fired, 
Into  the  cloister  had  retired, 

Or  who,  in  desperate  doubt  of  grace, 
Strove  by  deep  penance  to  efface 
Of  some  foul  crime  the  stain  ; 
For,  as  the  vassals  of  her  will. 
Such  men  the  Church  selected  still 
As  either  joyed  in  doing  ill. 
Or  thought  more  grace  to  gain 
If  in  her  cause  they  wrestled  down 
Feelings  their  nature  strove  to  own. 
By  strange  device  were  they  brought  there, 
They  knew  not  how,  and  knew  not  where. 


XXV. 

And  now  that  blind  old  abbot  rose. 
To  speak  the  Chapter's  doom 

On  those  the  wall  was  to  enclose 
Alive  within  the  tomb, 

But  stopped  because  that  woful  maid. 

Gathering  her  powers,  to  speak  essayed ; 

Twice  she  essayed,  and  twice  in  vain, 

Her  accents  might  no  utterance  gain  ; 

Naught  but  imperfect  murmurs  slip 


THE   CONVENT.  HI 

From  licr  convulsed  and  quivering  lip  : 
'Twixt  each  attempt  all  was  so  still, 
You  seemed  to  hear  a  distant  rill  — 

'Twas  ocean's  swells  and  falls ; 
For  though  this  vault  of  sin  and  fear 
Was  to  tlie  sounding  surge  so  near, 
A  tempest  there  you  scarce  could  hear, 
So  massive  were  the  walls. 


XXVI. 

At  length,  an  effort  sent  apart 

The  blood  that  curdled  to  her  heart, 

And  light  came  to  her  eye, 
And  color  dawned  upon  her  cheek, 
A  hectic  and  a  fluttered  streak. 
Like  that  left  on  the  Cheviot  peak 

By  Autumn's  stormy  sky ; 
And  when  her  silence  broke  at  length. 
Still  as  she  spoke  she  gathered  strength, 

And  armed  herself  to  bear. 
It  was  a  fearful  sight  to  see 
Such  high  resolve  and  constancy 

In  form  so  soft  and  fair. 


XXVII. 

'  I  speak  not  to  implore  your  grace, 
Well  know  I  for  one  minute's  space 


1X2  MARMION. 

Successless  might  I  sue  : 
Nor  do  I  speak  your  prayers  to  gain ; 
For  if  a  death  of  lingering  pain 
To  cleanse  my  sins  be  penance  vain, 

Vain  are  your  masses  too.  — 
I  listened  to  a  traitor's  tale, 
I  left  the  convent  and  the  veil ; 
Per  three  long  years  I  bowed  my  pride, 
A  horse-boy  in  his  train  to  ride ; 
And  well  my  folly's  meed  he  gave, 
Who  forfeited,  to  be  his  slave. 
All  here,  and  all  beyond  the  grave. 
He  saw  young  Clara's  face  more  fair, 
He  knew  her  of  broad  lands  the  heir, 
Forgot  his  vows,  his  faith  forswore, 
And  Constance  was  beloved  no  more. 

'T  is  an  old  tale,  and  often  told; 
But  did  my  fate  and  wish  agree, 

Ne'er  had  been  read,  in  story  old. 

Of  maiden  true  betrayed  for  gold, 
That  loved,  or  was  avenged,  like  me ! 

XXVIII. 

'The  king  approved  his  favorite's  aim; 
In  vain  a  rival  barred  his  claim, 

Whose  fate  with  Clare's  was  plight, 
For  he  attaints  that  rival's  fame 
With  treason's  charge  —  and  on  they  came 

In  mortal  lists  to  fight. 


THE   CONVENT.  113 

Their  oaths  arc  said, 
Their  prayers  are  prayed, 
Tiieir  lances  in  the  rest  ai'e  laid, 
They  meet  in  mortal  shock  ; 
And  hark  !   the  throng-,  witli  thundering  cry. 
Shout  "  Marinion,  Marmiou  !  to  the  sky, 

De  Wilton  to  the  hlock !  " 
Say,  ye  who  preach  Heaven  shall  decide 
When  in  the  lists  two  champions  ride, 

Say,  was  Heaven's  justice  here? 
When,  loyal  in  his  love  and  faith, 
Wilton  found  overthrow  or  death 

Beneath  a  traitor's  spear? 
How  false  the  charge,  how  true  he  fell. 
This  guilty  packet  best  can  tell.' 
Then  drew  a  packet  from  her  breast. 
Paused,  gathered  voice,  and  spoke  the  rest. 

XXIX. 

'  Still  was  false  Marmion's  bridal  stayed ; 
To  Whitby's  convent  fled  the  maid. 

The  hated  match  to  shun. 
"  Ho  !  shifts  she  thus  ?  "  King  Henry  cried, 
"  Sir  Marraion,  she  shall  be  thy  bride. 

If  she  were  sworn  a  nun." 
One  way  remained  —  the  king's  command 
Sent  Marmion  to  the  Scottish  land ; 
I  lingered  here,  and  rescue  planned 

Por  Clara  and  for  me : 


114  MARMION. 

This  caitiif  monk  for  gold  did  swear 
He  would  to  Whitby's  shrine  repair, 
And  by  his  drugs  my  rival  fair 
A  saint  in  heaven  should  be  ; 
But  ill  the  dastard  kept  his  oath, 
Whose  cowardice  hath  undone  us  both. 


XXX. 

'  And  now  my  tongue  the  secret  tells. 
Not  that  remorse  ray  bosom  swells. 
But  to  assure  my  soul  that  none 
Shall  ever  wed  with  Marmion. 
Had  fortune  my  last  hope  betrayed. 
This  packet,  to  the  king  conveyed, 
Had  given  him  to  the  headsman's  stroke, 
Although  my  heart  that  instant  broke.  — 
Now,  men  of  death,  work  forth  your  will, 
For  I  can  suffer,  and  be  still ; 
j  And  come  he  slow,  or  come  he  fast. 
It  is  but  Death  who  comes  at  last. 


XXXI. 

'  Yet  dread  me  from  my  living  tomb. 
Ye  vassal  slaves  of  bloody  Eome  ! 
If  Marmion's  late  remorse  should  wake, 
Pull  soon  such  vengeance  will  he  take 
That  you  shall  wish  the  fiery  Dane 
Had  rather  been  your  guest  again. 


THE  CONVENT.  115 

Behind,  a  darker  hour  ascends  ! 

The  altars  quake,  the  crosier  bends, 

The  ire  of  a  despotic  king 

Rides  forth  upon  destruction's  wing  ; 

Then  shall  these  vaults,  so  strong  and  deep, 

Burst  open  to  the  sea-winds'  sweep ; 

Some  traveller  then  shall  find  my  bones 

Whitening  amid  disjointed  stones. 

And,  ignorant  of  priests'  cruelty, 

Marvel  such  relics  here  should  be.' 


xxxir. 

Fixed  was  her  look  and  stern  her  air : 
Back  from  her  shoulders  streamed  her  hair ; 
The  locks  that  wont  her  brow  to  shade 
Stared  up  erectly  from  her  head  ; 
Her  figure  seemed  to  rise  more  high ; 
Her  voice  despair's  wild  energy 
Had  given  a  tone  of  prophecy. 
Appalled  the  astonished  conclave  sate ; 
With  stupid  eyes,  the  men  of  fate 
Gazed  on  the  light  inspired  form. 
And  listened  for  the  avenging  storm ; 
The  judges  felt  the  victim's  dread  ; 
No  hand  was  moved,  no  word  was  said. 
Till  thus  the  abbot's  doom  was  given. 
Raising  his  sightless  balls  to  heaven  : 
'  Sister,  let  thy  sorrows  cease  ; 
Sinful  brother,  part  in  peace  ! ' 


116  MARMION. 

From  that  dire  dungeon,  place  of  doom, 
Of  execution  too,  and  tomb, 

Paced  forth  the  judges  three ; 
Sorrow  it  were  and  shame  to  tell 
The  butcher-work  that  there  befell, 
When  they  had  glided  from  the  cell 

Of  sin  and  misery. 


XXXIII. 

An  hundred  winding  steps  convey 
That  conclave  to  the  upper  day  ; 
T?\it  ere  they  breathed  the  fresher  air 
They  heard  tlie  shriekings  of  despair, 

And  many  a  stifled  groan. 
With  speed  their  upward  way  they  take,  — 
Such  speed  as  age  and  fear  can  make,  — 
And  crossed  themselves  for  terror's  sake, 

As  hurrying,  tottering  on. 
Even  in  the  vesper's  heavenly  tone 
They  seemed  to  hear  a  dying  groan, 
And  bade  the  passing  knell  to  toll 
Por  welfare  of  a  parting  soid. 
Slow  o'er  the  midnight  wave  it  swung, 
Northumbrian  rocks  in  answer  rung  ; 
To  Warkworth  cell  the  echoes  rolled. 
His  beads  the  wakeful  hermit  told ; 
The  Bamborough  peasant  raised  his  head, 
But  slept  ere  half  a  prayer  he  said ; 


THE  CONVENT. 


117 


So  fai'  was  heard  llie  mighty  knell, 
The  stag-  sprung  up  on  ('heviot  IV'U, 
Spread  his  broad  nostril  to  the  wind, 
Listed  before,  aside,  behind, 
Then  eouehed  him  down  beside  the  hind, 
And  qnakcd  among  the  nioinitain  fern, 
To  hear  that  sound  so  dull  and  stern. 


/k»r    -     1" 


CANTO  THIRD. 

THE   HOSTEL,   OR  INN. 


vSk 


INTEODUCTION  TO   CANTO  THIED. 


TO   WILLIAM   ERSKINE,   ESQ. 


Ashestiel,  Ettnck  Forest. 

Like  April  morning  clouds,  that  pass 
With  varying  shadow  o'er  the  grass, 
And  imitate  on  field  and  furrow 
Life's  checkered  scene  of  joy  and  sorrow ; 
Like  stearalet  of  the  mountain  north. 
Now  in  a  torrent  racing  forth, 
Now  winding  slow  its  silver  train. 
And  almost  slumbering  on  the  plain ; 
Like  breezes  of  the  autumn  day, 
Whose  voice  inconstant  dies  away. 
And  ever  swells  again  as  fast 
When  the  ear  deems  its  murmur  past; 
Thus  various,  my  romantic  theme 
Plits,  winds,  or  sinks,  a  morning  dream. 


|£^  *   MARMION. 

Yet  pleased,  our  eye  pursues  the  trace 
Of  Light  and  Shade's  inconstant  race ; 
Pleased,  views  the  rivulet  afar, 
Weaving  its  maze  irregular ; 
And  pleased,  we  listen  as  the  breeze 
Heaves  its  wild  sigh  through  Autumn  trees 
Then,  wild  as  cloud,  or  stream,  or  gale, 
Flow  on,  flow  unconfined,  my  tale  ! 


Need  I  to  thee,  dear  Erskine,  tell 
I  love  the  license  all  too  well. 
In  sounds  now  lowly,  and  now  strong. 
To  raise  the  desultory  song  ? 
Oft,  when  mid  such  capricious  chime 
Some  transient  fit  of  loftier  rhyme 
To  thy  kind  judgment  seemed  excuse 
Por  many  an  error  of  the  muse. 
Oft  hast  thou  said,  '  If,  still  misspent, 
Thine  hours  to  poetry  are  lent, 
Go,  and  to  tame  thy  wandering  course, 
Quaff  from  the  fountain  at  the  source  ; 
Approach  those  masters  o'er  whose  tomb 
Immortal  laurels  ever  bloom  : 
Instructive  of  the  feebler  bard, 
Still  from  the  grave  their  voice  is  heard ; 
From  them,  and  from  the  paths  they  showed. 
Choose  honored  guide  and  practised  road ; 
Nor  ramble  on  through  brake  and  maze. 
With  harpers  rude  of  barbarous  days. 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO   THIRD.       l23 

'  Or  deeni'st  thou  not  our  later  time 
Yields  topic  meet  for  classic  rliyuie  ? 
Hast  thou  no  elegiac  verse 
For  I^runswick's  venerable  hearse  ? 
What !  not  a  line,  a  tear,  a  sig-h, 
When  valor  bleeds  for  liberty  ?  — 
Oh,  hero  of  that  glorious  time, 
When,  with  unrivalled  light  sublime, — 
Though  martial  Austria,  and  though  all 
The  might  of  Eussia,  and  the  Gaul, 
Though  banded  Europe  stood  her  foes  — 
The  star  of  Brandeubiu'gh  arose  ! 
Thou  couldst  not  live  to  see  her  beam 
Forever  quenched  in  Jena's  stream. 
Lamented  chief !  —  it  was  not  given 
To  thee  to  change  the  doom  of  Heaven, 
And  crush  that  dragon  in  its  birth, 
Pi-edestined  scourge  of  guilty  earth. 
Lamented  chief !  —  not  thine  the  power 
To  save  in  that  presumptuous  hour 
When  Prussia  hurried  to  the  field. 
And  snatched  the  spear,  but  left  the  shield ! 
Valor  and  skill  't  was  thine  to  try. 
And,  tried  in  vain,  't  was  thine  to  die. 
Ill  had  it  seemed  thy  silver  hair 
The  last,  the  bitterest  pang  to  share, 
For  princedoms  reft,  and  scutcheons  riven. 
And  birthrights  to  usurpers  given  ; 
Thy  land's,  thy  children's  wrongs  to  feel. 
And  witness  woes  thou  coiddst  not  heal ! 


1^4  UARMION. 

On  thee  relenting  Heaven  bestows 

For  honored  life  an  honored  close ; 

And  when  revolves,  in  time's  sure  change, 

The  hour  of  Germany's  revenge, 

When,  breathing  fury  for  her  sake. 

Some  new  Arminius  shall  awake, 

Her  champion,  ere  he  strike,  shall  come 

To  whet  his  sword  on  Brunswick's  tomb. 

'  Or  of  the  Red-Cross  hero  teach, 
Dauntless  in  dungeon  as  on  breach. 
Alike  to  him  the  sea,  the  shore. 
The  brand,  the  bridle,  or  the  oar : 
Alike  to  him  the  war  that  calls 
Its  votaries  to  the  shattered  walls 
Which  the  grim  Turk,  besmeared  with  blood. 
Against  the  Invincible  made  good  ; 
Or  that  whose  thundering  voice  could  wake 
The  silence  of  the  polar  lake, 
When  stubborn  Russ  and  mettled  Swede 
On  the  warped  wave  their  death-game  played ; 
Or  that  where  Vengeance  and  Affright 
Howled  round  the  father  of  the  fight. 
Who  snatched  on  Alexandria's  sand 
The  conqueror's  wreath  with  dying  hand. 

'  Or,  if  to  touch  such  chord  be  thine, 
Restore  the  ancient  tragic  line. 
And  emulate  the  notes  that  rung 
From  the  Avild  harp  Avhich  silent  hung 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO   TUIRD.       125 

By  silver  Avon's  holy  shore 
Till  twice  an  hundred  years  rolled  o'er ; 
When  slie,  the  bold  Enchantress,  came, 
With  fearless  hand  and  heart  on  flame, 
From  the  pule  willow  snatched  the  treasure, 
And  swept  it  with  a  kindred  measure. 
Till  Avon's  swans,  while  rung  the  grove 
With  Montfort's  hate  and  Basil's  love, 
Awakening  at  the  inspired  strain, 
Deemed  their  own  Shakespeare  lived  again.* 

Thy  friendship  thus  thy  judgment  wronging 
With  praises  not  to  me  belonging, 
In  task  more  meet  for  mightiest  powers 
Wouldst  thou  engage  my  thriftless  hours. 
But  say,  my  Erskine,  hast  thou  weighed 
That  secret  power  by  all  obeyed, 
Which  warps  not  less  the  passive  mind. 
Its  source  concefiled  or  undefined ; 
Whether  an  impulse,  that  has  birth 
Soon  as  the  infant  wakes  on  earth, 
One  with  our  feelings  and  our  powers. 
And  rather  part  of  us  than  ours  ; 
Or  whether  fitlier  termed  the  sway 
Of  habit,  formed  in  early  day  ? 
Howe'er  derived,  its  force  confessed 
Rules  with  despotic  sway  the  breast, 
And  drags  us  on  by  vicAvless  chain, 
While  taste  and  reason  plead  in  vain. 
Look  east,  and  ask  the  Belgian  why, 


126  MARMION. 

Beneath  Batavia's  sultry  sky, 
He  seeks  not  eager  to  inhale 
The  freshness  of  the  mountain  gale. 
Content  to  rear  his  whitened  wall 
Beside  the  dank  and  dull  canal  ? 
He  '11  say,  from  youth  he  loved  to  see 
The  white  sail  gliding  by  the  tree. 
Or  see  yon  weather-beaten  hind, 
Whose  sluggish  herds  before  him  wind, 
Whose  tattered  plaid  and  rugged  cheek 
His  northern  clime  and  kindred  speak ; 
Through  England's  laughing  meads  he  goes. 
And  England's  wealth  around  him  flows  ; 
Ask  if  it  would  content  him  well. 
At  ease  in  those  gay  plains  to  dAvell, 
.  Where  hedge-rows  spread  a  verdant  screen, 
And  spires  and  forests  intervene. 
And  the  neat  cottage  peeps  between  ? 
No !  not  for  these  will  he  exchange 
His  dark  Lochaber's  boundless  range. 
Not  for  fair  Devon's  meads  forsake 
Ben  Nevis  gray  and  Garry's  lake. 

Thus  while  I  ape  the  measure  wild 
Of  tales  that  charmed  me  yet  a  child. 
Rude  though  they  be,  still  with  the  chime 
Eeturn  the  thoughts  of  early  time ; 
And  feelings,  roused  in  life's  first  day. 
Glow  in  the  line  and  prompt  the  lay. 
Then  rise  those  crags,  that  mountain  tower, 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  THIRD.       127 

Which  charmed  my  fancy's  wakening  hour. 

Though  no  broad  river  swept  along. 

To  claim,  perchance,  heroic  song, 

Thougli  sighed  no  groves  in  summer  gale, 

To  prompt  of  love  a  softer  tale, 

Though  scarce  a  puny  streamlet's  speed 

Claimed  homage  from  a  shepherd's  reed. 

Yet  was  poetic  impulse  given 

By  the  green  hill  and  clear  blue  heaven. 

It  was  a  barren  scene  and  wild, 

Where  naked  cliffs  were  rudely  piled. 

But  ever  and  anon  between 

Lay  velvet  tufts  of  loveliest  green  ; 

And  well  the  lonely  infant  knew 

Recesses  where  the  wall-flower  grew. 

And  honeysuckle  loved  to  crawl 

Up  the  low  crag  and  ruined  wall. 

I  deemed  such  nooks  the  sweetest  shade 

The  sun  in  all  its  round  surveyed  ; 

And  still  I  thought  that  shattered  tower 

The  mightiest  work  of  human  power. 

And  marvelled  as  the  aged  hind 

With  some  strange  tale  bewitched  my  mind 

Of  forayers,  who  with  headlong  force 

Down  from  that  strength  had  spurred  their  horse, 

Their  southern  rapine  to  renew 

Par  in  the  distant  Cheviots  blue, 

And,  home  returning,  filled  the  hall 

With  revel,  wassail-rout,  and  brawl. 

Methought  that  still  with  trump  and  clang 


128  MARMION. 

The  gateway's  broken  arches  rang ; 
Methought  grim  features,  seamed  with  scars, 
Glared  through  the  window's  rusty  bars, 
And  ever,  by  the  winter  hearth. 
Old  tales  I  heard  of  woe  or  mirth, 
,  Of  lovers'  slights,  of  ladies'  charms. 
Of  witches'  spells,  of  warriors'  arms ; 
Of  patriot  battles,  won  of  old 
By  Wallace  wight  and  Bruce  tlie  bold ; 
Of  later  fields  of  feud  and  fight, 
When,  pouring  from  their  Highland  height, 
The  Scottish  clans  in  headlong  sway 
Had  swept  the  scarlet  ranks  away. 
While  stretched  at  length  upon  the  floor, 
Again  I  fought  each  combat  o'er, 
Pebbles  and  shells,  in  order  laid. 
The  mimic  ranks  of  war  displayed ; 
And  onward  still  the  Scottish  Lion  bore, 
And  still  the  scattered  Southron  fled  before. 

Still,  with  vain  fondness,  could  I  trace 
Anew  each  kind  familiar  face 
That  brightened  at  our  evening  fire  ! 
From  the  thatched  mansion's  gray-haired  sire. 
Wise  Avithout  learning,  plain  and  good. 
And  sprung  of  Scotland's  gentler  blood  ; 
Whose  eye  in  age,  quick,  clear,  and  keen. 
Showed  what  in  youth  its  glance  had  been ; 
Whose  doom  discording  neighbors  sought. 
Content  with  equity  unbought ; 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO   THIRD.       129 

To  him  tlic  vuucrablc  priest, 
Our  frequent  and  iauiiliar  guest, 
Whose  life  and  manners  well  could  paint 
Alike  the  student  and  the  saint, 
Alas !   whose  speeeh  too  ot't  I  broke 
With  gambol  rude  and  timeless  joke  : 
For  I  was  wayward,  bold,  and  wild, 
A  self-willed  imp,  a  grandame's  child ; 
But  half  a  plague,  and  half  a  jest. 
Was  still  endured,  beloved,  caressed. 

From  me,  thus  nurtured,  dost  thou  ask 
The  classic  poet's  well-conned  task  ? 
Nay,  Erskine,  nay  —  on  the  wild  hill 
Let  the  wild  heath-bell  flourish  still ; 
Cherish  the  tidip,  prune  the  vine, 
But  freely  let  the  woodbine  twine. 
And  leave  luitrimmed  the  eglantine : 
Nay,  my  friend,  nay  • —  since  oft  thy  praise 
Hath  given  fresh  vigor  to  my  lays, 
Since  oft  thy  judgment  could  refine 
My  flattened  thought  or  cumbrous  line, 
Still  kind,  as  is  thy  wont,  attend, 
And  in  the  minstrel  spare  the  friend. 
Though  wild  as  cloud,  as  stream,  as  gale^ 
Flow  forth,  flow  unrestrained,  mv  tale ! 


CANTO  THIRD. 

THE    HOSTEL,    OR    INN. 


The  livelong-  tlaj''  Lord  Marniion  rode; 
The  mountain  path  the  Palmer  showed 
By  g'len  and  streamlet  winded  still, 
Where  stunted  birches  hid  the  rill. 


132  MARMION. 

They  might  not  choose  the  lowlaiul  road, 
For  the  Merse  forayers  were  abroad, 
Who,  fired  with  hate  and  thirst  of  prey, 
.     Had  scarcely  failed  to  bar  their  way. 
Oft  on  the  trampling  band  from  crown 
Of  some  tall  cliff  the  deer  looked  down  ; 
On  wing  of  jet  from  his  repose 
In  the  deep  heath  the  blackcock  rose ; 
Sprimg  from  the  gorse  the  timid  roe, 
Nor  waited  for  the  bending  bow  ; 
And  when  the  stony  path  began 
By  which  the  naked  peak  they  wan, 
Up  flew  the  snowy  ptarmigan. 
The  noon  had  long  been  passed  before 
They  gained  the  height  of  Lammermoor; 
Thence  winding  down  the  northern  way. 
Before  them  at  the  close  of  day 
Old  Gilford's  towers  and  hamlet  lay. 


II. 

No  summons  calls  them  to  the  tower, 

To  spend  the  hospitable  liour. 

To  Scotland's  camp  the  lord  was  gone; 

His  cautions  dame,  in  bower  alone. 

Dreaded  her  castle  to  unclose, 

So  late,  to  unknown  friends  or  foes. 
On  through  the  hamlet  as  they  paced. 
Before  a  porch  whose  front  was  graced 
With  bush  and  flagon  trimly  placed. 


THE  HOSTEL,   OR  INN.  133 

Lord  Mannion  drew  liis  rein  : 
The  village  iiin  seemed  large,  thougli  rude ; 
Its  clieerful  fire  and  hearty  food 
Might  well  relieve  his  train. 

Down  from  their  seats  the  horsemen  sprung, 

With  jingling  spurs  the  court-yard  rung; 

They  bind  their  horses  to  the  stall, 

For  forage,  food,  and  firing  call. 

And  various  clamor  fills  the  hall : 

Weighing  the  labor  Avith  the  cost. 

Toils  everywhere  the  bustling  host. 

III. 

Soon,  by  the  chimney's  merry  blaze. 
Through  the  rude  hostel  might  you  gaze, 
Might  see  where  in  dark  nook  aloof 
The  rafters  of  the  sooty  roof 

Bore  wealth  of  winter  cheer ; 
Of  sea-fowl  dried,  and  solands  store, 
And  ganunons  of  the  tusky  boar. 

And  savory  haunch  of  deer. 
The  chimney  arch  projected  wide ; 
Above,  around  it,  and  beside, 

Were  tools  for  housewives'  hand  ; 
Nor  wanted,  in  that  martial  day. 
The  implements  of  Scottish  fray. 

The  buckler,  lance,  and  brand. 
Beneath  its  shade,  the  place  of  state, 
On  oaken  settle  Marmion  sate. 


134  MARMION. 

And  viewed  around  tlie  blazing  hearth 
His  followers  mix  in  noisy  mirth ; 
Whom  with  brown  ale,  in  jolly  tide, 
Prom  ancient  vessels  ranged  aside, 
Pull  actively  their  host  supplied. 


IV. 

Theirs  was  the  glee  of  martial  breast, 
And  laughter  theirs  at  little  jest ; 
And  oft  Lord  Marmion  deigned  to  aid, 
And  mingle  in  the  mirth  they  made  ; 
For  thougli,  with  men  of  high  degree, 
The  proudest  of  the  proud  was  he. 
Yet,  trained  in  camps,  he  knew  the  art 
To  win  the  soldier's  hardy  heart. 
They  love  a  captain  to  obey. 
Boisterous  as  March,  yet  fresh  as  May ; 
With  open  hand  and  brow  as  free. 
Lover  of  wine  and  minstrelsy  ; 
Ever  the  first  to  scale  a  tower. 
As  venturous  in  a  lady's  bower  :  — 
Such  buxom  cluef  shall  lead  his  host 
Prom  Lidia's  fires  to  Zembla's  frost. 


Eesting  upon  his  pilgrim  staff, 
Eight  opposite  the  Palmer  stood. 


THE  HOSTEL,   OR  INN. 


135 


His  thin  dark  visage  seen  but  half, 

Half  hidden  by  his  hood. 
Still  tixcd  on  Mavmion  was  his  look, 
Which  he,  who  ill  such  gaze  could  brook, 

Strove  by  a  frown  to  quell  ; 
But  not  for  that,  though  more  than  once 
Pull  met  their  stern  encountering  glance, 

The  Palmer's  visage  fell. 


136  MARMION. 


VI. 


By  fits  less  frequent  from  the  crowd 
Was  heard  the  burst  of  laughter  loud  ; 
li'or  still,  as  squire  and  archer  stared 
On  that  (lark  face  and  matted  beard, 

Their  glee  and  game  declined. 
All  gazed  at  length  in  silence  drear, 
Unbroke  save  when  in  comrade's  ear 
Some  yeoman,  wondering  in  his  fear, 

Thus  whispered  forth  his  mind  : 
*  Saint  Mary  !  saw'st  thou  e'er  such  sight  ? 
How  pale  his  cheek,  his  eye  how  bright, 
Whene'er  the  firebrand's  fickle  light 

Glances  beneath  his  cowl ! 
Full  on  our  lord  he  sets  his  eye ; 
Por  his  best  palfrey  would  not  I 

Endure  that  sullen  scowl.' 


VII. 


But  Marmion,  as  to  chase  the  awe 

Wliich  thus  had  quelled  their  hearts  who  saw 

The  ever-varying  firelight  show 

That  fignre  stern  and  face  of  woe. 

Now  called  upon  a  squire  : 
'  Eitz-Eustace,  know'st  thou  not  some  lay. 
To  speed  the  lingering  night  away  ? 

We  slumber  by  the  fire.' 


THE  HOSTEL,   OR  INN.  137 


VIII. 

'  So  please  you,'  thus  the  youth  rejoined, 
'  Our  choicest  minstrel 's  left  beliiiul. 
Ill  may  we  hope  to  please  your  ear, 
Accustomed  Constant's  strains  to  Iiear. 
The  harp  full  deftly  can  lie  strike, 
And  wake  the  lover's  lute  alike ; 
To  dear  Saint  Valentine  no  thrush 
Sings  livelier  from  a  springtide  bush. 
No  nightingale  her  lovelorn  tune 
More  sweetly  warbles  to  the  moon. 
Woe  to  the  cause,  whate'er  it  be. 
Detains  from  us  his  melody, 
Lavished  on  rocks  and  billows  stern. 
Or  duller  monks  of  Lindisfarne. 
Now  must  I  venture  as  I  may, 
To  sing  his  favorite  roundelay.' 


IX. 

A  mellow  voice  Pitz-Eustace  had, 
The  air  he  chose  was  wild  and  sad ; 
Such  have  I  heai'd  in  Scottish  laud 
Rise  from  the  busy  harvest  band, 
When  falls  before  the  mountaineer 
On  Lowland  plains  the  ripened  ear. 
Now  one  shrill  voice  the  notes  prolong, 
Now  a  wild  chorus  swells  the  song : 


138  MARMION. 

Oft  have  I  listened  and  stood  still 
As  it  eame  softened  up  the  hill, 
And  deemed  it  the  lament  of  men 
AVho  languished  for  their  native  glen, 
And  thought  how  sad  would  be  such  sound 
On  Susquehanna's  swampy  ground, 
Kentucky's  wood-encumbered  brake. 
Or  wild  Ontario's  boundless  lake, 
Where  heart-sick  exiles  in  the  strain 
Eecallcd  fair  Scotland's  hills  again ! 


SONG. 

Where  shall  the  lover  rest, 

Whom  the  fates  sever 
From  his  true  maiden's  breast. 

Parted  forever? 
Where,  through  groves  deep  and  high, 

Sounds  the  far  billow. 
Where  early  violets  die, 

Under  the  willow. 

CHORUS. 

Eleii  loro,  etc.     Soft  shall  be  his  pillow, 

There,  through  the  summer  day, 
Cool  streams  are  laving; 


THE  HOSTEL,   OR  INN.  139 

There,  wliile  the  tempests  sway, 

Scarce  are  boughs  waving ; 
There  thy  rest  slialt  thou  take, 

Parted  forever, 
Never  again  to  wake, 

Never,  0  never ! 


CHORUS. 

Men  loro,  etc.     Never,  0  never  ! 

XT. 

Where  shall  the  traitor  rest, 

He  the  deceiver, 
Who  coukl  win  maiden's  breast, 

Kuin  and  leave  her  ? 
In  the  lost  battle. 

Borne  down  by  the  flying, 
Where  mingles  Avar's  rattle 

With  groans  of  the  dviug. 

CHORUS. 

Eleu  loro,  etc.     There  shall  he  be  lying. 


Her  wing  shall  the  eagle  flap 
O'er  the  false-hearted ; 


140  MARMION. 


His  warm  blood,  tlio  wolf  shall  lap. 

Ere  life  be  parted. 
Shame  and  dishonor  sit 

By  his  grave  ever ; 
Blessing  shall  hallow  it,  — 

Never,  O  never ! 

CHORUS. 

Eleu  loro,  etc.     Nc^ver,  0  never ! 


XTI. 

It  ceased,  the  melancholj'  sound, 
And  silence  sunk  on  all  around. 
The  air  was  sad  ;   but  sadder  still 

It  fell  on  Marmion's  ear. 
And  plained  as  if  disgrace  and  ill, 

And  shameful  death,  were  near. 
He  drew  his  mantle  past  his  face, 

Between  it  and  the  band. 
And  rested  with  his  head  a  space 

Reclining  on  his  hand. 
His  thoughts  I  scan  not ;  but  I  ween 
That,  could  their  import  have  been  seen, 
The  meanest  groom  in  all  the  hall, 
That  e'er  tied  courser  to  a  stall, 
Would  scarce  have  wished  to  be  their  prey. 
For  Lutterward  and  Eontenaye. 


THE  HOSTEL,   OR  INN.  141 


XIII. 

High  minds,  of  native  pride  and  force, 
Most  deeply  feel  thy  pangs,  Remorse  ! 
Fear  for  their  scourge  mean  villains  have, 
Thou  art  the  torturer  of  the  brave  ! 
Yet  fatal  strength  they  boast  to  steel 
Their  minds  to  bear  the  wounds  they  feel. 
Even  while  they  wi-ithc  beneath  the  smart 
Of  civil  conflict  in  the  heart. 
For  soon  Lord  Marmion  raised  his  head. 
And  smiling  to  Fitz-Eustace  said  : 
'  Is  it  not  strange  that,  as  ye  sung, 
Seemed  in  mine  ear  a  death-peal  rung, 
Such  as  in  nunneries  they  toll 
For  some  departing  sister's  soul  ? 

Say,  what  may  this  portend  ?  ' 
Then  first  the  Palmer  silence  broke,  — 
The  livelong  day  he  had  not  spoke,  — 

'  The  death  of  a  dear  friend.' 


XIV. 

Marmion,  whose  steady  heart  and  eye 
Ne'er  changed  in  Avorst  extremity, 
Marmion,  whose  soul  could  scantly  brook 
Even  from  his  king  a  haughty  look. 
Whose  accent  of  command  controlled 
In  camps  the  boldest  of  the  bold  — 


142  MARMION. 

Thouglit,  look,  and  utterance  failed  him  now, 
Fallen  was  his  glance  and  flushed  his  brow ; 

For  either  in  the  tone, 
Or  something  in  the  Palmer's  look, 
.&  full  upon  his  conscience  strook 

That  answer  he  found  none. 
Thus  oft  it  haps  that  when  within 
Thev  shrink  at  sense  of  secret  sin, 

A  feather  daunts  the  brfive ; 
A  fool's  wild  speech  confoinids  the  wise, 
And  proudest  princes  vail  their  eyes 

Before  their  meanest  slave. 


XV. 

Well  might  he  falter  !  — ■  By  his  aid 
Was  Constance  Beverley  betrayed. 
Not  that  he  augured  of  the  doom 
Which  on  the  living  closed  the  tomb  : 
But,  tired  to  hear  the  desperate  maid 
Threaten  by  turns,  beseech,  upbraid, 
And  wroth  because  in  wild  despair 
She  practised  on  the  life  of  Clare, 
Its  fugitive  the  Church  he  gave. 
Though  not  a  victim,  but  a  slave. 
And  deemed  restraint  in  convent  strange 
Would  hide  her  wrongs  and  her  revenge. 
Himself,  proiul  Henry's  favorite  peer. 
Held  Komish  thunders  idle  fear; 


THE  HOSTEL,  OR  INN.  143 

Secure  liis  pardon  lie  might  hold 

For  some  slight  mulct  of  penance-gold. 

Thus  judging,  he  gave  secret  way 

When  the  stern  priests  surprised  their  prey. 

His  train  but  deemed  the  favorite  page 

Was  left  behind  to  spare  his  age ; 

Or  other  if  they  deemed,  none  dared 

To  mutter  what  he  thought  and  heard  : 

Woe  to  the  vassal  who  durst  pry 

Into  Lord  Marmion's  privacy  ! 


XVI. 

His  conscience  slept  —  he  deemed  her  well, 
And  safe  secured  in  distant  cell ; 
But,  wakened  by  her  favorite  lay, 
And  that  strange  Palmer's  bodius:  sav 
That  fell  so  ominous  and  drear 
Full  on  the  object  of  his  fear, 
To  aid  remorse's  venomed  throes, 
Dark  tales  of  convent-vengeance  rose  ; 
And  Constance,  late  betrayed  and  scorned, 
All  lovely  on  his  soul  returned ; 
Lovely  as  when  at  treacherous  call 
She  left  her  convent's  peaceful  wall, 
Crimsoned  with  shame,  with  terror  mute, 
Dreading  alike  escape,  pursuit, 
Till  love,  victorious  o'er  alarms. 
Hid  fears  and  blushes  in  his  arms. 


144  MARMION. 

XVII. 

'  Alas  ! '  lie  thought,  '  how  changed  that  mien  ! 

How  changed  these  tiraid  looks  have  been, 

Since  years  of  guilt  and  of  disguise 

Have  steeled  her  brow  and  armed  her  eyes ! 

No  more  of  virgin  terror  speaks 

The  blood  that  mantles  in  her  cheeks ; 

Fierce  and  unfeminine  are  there, 

Frenzy  for  joy,  for  grief  despair ; 

And  I  the  cause  —  for  whom  were  given 

Her  peace  on  earth,  her  hopes  in  heaven  !  — 

Woukl,'  thouglit  he,  as  the  picture  grows, 

'  I  on  its  stalk  had  left  the  rose ! 

Oh,  why  shoukl  man's  success  remove 

The  very  charms  that  wake  his  love  ?  — 

Her  convent's  peaceful  solitude 

Is  now  a  prison  harsh  and  rude ; 

And,  pent  within  the  narrow  cell. 

How  will  her  spirit  chafe  and  swell ! 

How  brook  the  stern  monastic  laws ! 

The  penance  how  —  and  I  the  cause !  — 

Vigil  and  scourge  —  perchance  even  worse ! '  - 

And  twice  he  rose  to  cry,  '  To  horse ! ' 

And  twice  his  sovereign's  mandate  came. 

Like  damp  upon  a  kindling  flame  ; 

And  twice  he  thought,  '  Gave  I  not  charge 

She  should  be  safe,  though  not  at  large  ? 

They  durst  not,  for  their  island,  shred 

One  golden  ringlet  from  her  head.' 


TUE  HOSTEL,  OR  INN.  145 


XVIII. 

While  thus  in  Marmioii's  bosom  strove 

Repentance  and  reviving  love, 

Like  whirlwinds  whose  contending  sway 

I've  seen  Loch  Vennachar  obey, 

Their  host  the  Palmer's  speech  had  heard, 

And  talkative  took  up  the  word  : 

'  Ay,  reverend  pilgrim,  you  who  stray 
From  Scotland's  simple  land  away. 

To  visit  realms  afar. 
Full  often  learn  the  art  to  know 
Of  future  weal  or  future  woe, 
By  word,  or  sign,  or  star; 
Yet  might  a  knight  his  fortune  hear, 
If,  knight-like,  he  despises  fear, 
Not  far  from  hence  ;  —  if  fathers  old 
\right  our  hamlet  legend  told.' 
These  broken  w^ords  the  menials  move,  — 
For  marvels  still  the  vulgar  love,  — 
And,  Marmion  giving  license  cold. 
His  tale  the  host  thus  gladly  told  :  — 

XIX. 

THE    host's    tale. 

'  A  clerk  could  tell  what  years  have  flown 
Since  Alexander  filled  our  throne,  — 
Third  monarch  of  that  warlike  name, — 
And  eke  the  time  when  here  he  came 


X46  MARMION. 

To  seek  Sir  Hugo,  then  our  lord : 

A  braver  never  drew  a  sword; 

A  wiser  never,  at  the  hour 

Of  midnight,  spoke  the  word  of  power  ; 

Tlie  same  whom  ancient  records  call 

The  founder  of  the  Goblin-Hall. 

I  would,  Sir  Knight,  your  longer  stay 
Gave  you  that  cavern  to  survey. 

Of  lofty  roof  and  ample  size, 
Beneath  the  castle  deep  it  lies : 
To  hew  the  living  rock  profound. 
The  floor  to  pave,  the  arch  to  round, 
There  never  toiled  a  mortal  arm. 
It  all  was  wrought  by  word  and  charm ; 
And  I  have  heard  my  grandsire  say 
That  the  wild  clamor  and  affray 
Of  those  dread  artisans  of  hell. 
Who  labored  under  Hugo's  spell, 
Sounded  as  loud  as  ocean's  war 
Among  the  caverns  of  Dunbar. 


XX. 

'The  king  Lord  Gifford's  castle  sought. 
Deep  laboring  with  uncertain  thought. 
Even  then  he  mustered  all  his  host, 
To  meet  upon  the  western  coast ; 
For  Norse  and  Danish  galleys  plied 
Their  oars  within  the  Eirth  of  Clyde. 
There  floated  Haco's  banner  trim 


THE  HOSTEL,   OR  INN.  147 

Above  Noi-weyan  warriors  grim, 

Savage  of  heart  and  large  of  limb, 

Threatening  both  continent  and  isle, 

Bute,  Arran,  CUnininghame,  and  Kyle. 

Lord  Gifford,  deep  bencatli  the  ground. 

Heard  Alexander's  bugle  sound, 

And  tarried  not  his  garb  to  change, 

But,  in  his  wizard  habit  strange, 

(^anic  forth,  —  a  quaint  and  fearful  sight: 

His  mantle  liued  with  fox-skins  white ; 

His  hioh  and  wrinkled  forehead  bore 

A  pointed  cap,  such  as  of  yore 

Clerks  say  that  Pharaoh's  Magi  wore ; 

His  shoes  were  marked  with  cross  and  spell, 

Upon  his  breast  a  pentacle ; 

His  zone  of  virgin  parchment  thin, 

Or,  as  some  tell,  of  dead  man's  skin, 

Bore  many  a  planetary  sign. 

Combust,  and  retrograde,  and  trine ; 

And  in  his  hand  he  held  prepared 

A  naked  sword  without  a  guard. 


XXI. 

'  Dire  dealings  with  a  fiendish  race 
Had  marked  strange  lines  upon  his  face ; 
Vigil  and  fast  had  worn  him  grim. 
His  eyesight  dazzled  seemed  and  dim, 
As  one  unused  to  upper  day  ; 
Even  his  own  menials  with  dismay 


148  MARMION. 

Beheld,  Sir  Knight,  the  grisly  sire 
In  this  unwonted  wild  attire  ; 
Unwonted,  for  traditions  run 
He  seldom  thus  beheld  the  sun. 
"I  know,"  he  said,  —  his  voice  was  hoarse, 
And  broken  seemed  its  hollow  force, — 
"  I  know  the  cause,  although  untold. 
Why  the  king  seeks  his  vassal's  hold  : 
Vainly  from  me  my  liege  would  know 
His  kingdom's  future  weal  or  woe ; 
But  yet,  if  strong  his  arm  and  heart, 
His  courage  may  do  more  than  art. 

XXII. 

'  "  Of  middle  air  the  demons  proud, 
Who  ride  upon  the  racking  cloud, 
Can  read  in  fixed  or  wandering  star 
The  issue  of  events  afar. 
But  still  their  sullen  aid  withhold, 
Save  when  by  mightier  force  controlled. 
Such  late  I  summoned  to  my  hall ; 
And  though  so  potent  was  the  call 
That  scarce  the  deepest  nook  of  liell 
I  deemed  a  refuge  from  the  spell. 
Yet,  obstinate  in  silence  still. 
The  haughty  demon  mocks  my  skill. 
But  thou —  who  little  know'st  thy  might 
As  born  upon  that  blessed  night 
When  yawning  graves  and  dying  groan 


THE  HOSTEL,   OR  INN.  149 

Proclaimed  hell's  empire  overtlirown  — 

With  uiitaug'ht  valor  shalt  compel 

Response  denied  to  magic  spell." 

"  Gramcrcy,"  quoth  our  monarch  free, 

"  Place  him  but  front  to  front  with  me, 

And,  by  this  good  and  honored  brand. 

The  gift  of  Cceur-de-Lion's  hand, 

Soothly  I  swear  that,  tide  what  tide. 

The  demon  shall  a  buifet  bide." 

His  bearing  bold  the  wizard  viewed, 

And  thus,  well  pleased,  his  speech  renewed : 

"  There  spoke  the  blood  of  Malcolm  !  —  niaik  : 

Forth  pacing  hence  at  midnight  dark. 

The  rampart  seek  whose  circling  crown 

Crests  the  ascent  of  yonder  down  : 

A  southern  entrance  shalt  thou  find  ; 

There  halt,  and  thei-e  thy  bugle  wind, 

And  trust  thine  elfin  foe  to  see 

In  guise  of  thy  worst  enemy. 

Couch  then  thy  lance  and  spur  thy  steed  — 

Upon  him  !  and  Saint  George  to  speed ! 

If  he  go  down,  thou  soon  shalt  know 

Whate'er  these  airy  sprites  can  show ; 

If  thy  heart  fail  thee  in  the  strife, 

I  am  no  Avarrant  for  thy  life." 

XXIII. 

'  Soon  as  the  midnight  bell  did  ring, 
Alone  and  armed,  forth  rode  the  king 
To  that  old  camp's  deserted  round. 


150  MARMION. 

Sir  Knight,  you  well  might  mark  the  mound 
Left  hand  the  town,  —  the  Pictish  race 
The  trench,  long  since,  in  blood  did  trace; 
Tlie  moor  aronud  is  brown  and  bare, 
The  space  within  is  green  and  fair. 
The  spot  our  village  children  know, 
For  there  the  earliest  wild-flowers  grow ; 
But  woe  betide  the  wandering  wight 
That  treads  its  circle  in  the  night ! 
The  breadth  across,  a  bowshot  clear, 
Grives  ample  space  for  full  career ; 
Opposed  to  the  four  points  of  heaven, 
By  four  deep  gaps  are  entrance  given. 
The  southernmost  our  monarch  passed. 
Halted,  and  blew  a  gallant  blast; 
And  on  the  north,  within  the  ring. 
Appeared  the  form  of  England's  king, 
Who  then,  a  thousand  leagues  afar, 
In  Palestine  waged  holy  war  : 
Yet  arms  like  England's  did  he  wi(^ld; 
Alike  the  leopards  in  the  shield, 
Alike  his  Syrian  courser's  frame, 
The  rider's  length  of  limb  the  same. 
Long  afterwards  did  Scotland  know 
Fell  Edward  was  her  deadliest  foe. 


XXIV. 

'The  vision  made  our  monarch  start. 
But  soon  he  maimed  his  noble  heart. 


THE  HOSTEL,  OR  INN. 


151 


And  in  the  first  career  they  ran, 

The  Elfin  Knight  fell,  horse  and  man ; 

Yet  did  a  splinter  of  his  lance 


152  mahmion. 

Through  Alexander's  visor  glance, 
And  razed  the  skin  —  a  puny  wound. 
The  king,  light  leaping  to  the  ground, 
With  naked  blade  his  phantom  foe 
Compelled  the  future  Avar  to  show. 
Of  Largs  he  saw  the  glorious  plain, 
Where  still  gigantic  bones  remain, 

Memorial  of  the  Danish  war ; 
Himself  he  saw,  amid  the  field, 
On  high  his  brandished  war-axe  wield 
And  strike  proud  Haco  from  his  car, 
While  all  around  the  shadowy  kings 
Denmark's  grim  ravens  cowered  their  wings. 
'T  is  said  that  in  that  awful  night 
Remoter  visions  met  his  sight, 
Foreshowing  future  conquest  far. 
When  our  sons'  sons  wage  Northern  war; 
A  royal  city,  tower  and  spire, 
Eeddened  the  midnight  sky  with  fire, 
And  shouting  crews  her  navy  bore 
Triumphant  to  the  victor  shore. 
Such  signs  may  learned  clerks  explain, 
They  pass  the  wit  of  simple  swain. 


XXV. 

'  The  joyful  king  turned  home  again. 
Headed  his  host,  and  quelled  the  Dane ; 
But  yearly,  when  returned  the  night 
Of  his  strange  combat  with  the  sprite, 


THE  HOSTEL,  OR  INN.  153 

His  wound,  must  bleed  and  smart; 
Lord  Giflbrd  then  would  gibing  say, 
"  Bold  as  ye  were,  my  liege,  ye  pay 

The  penance  of  your  start." 
Long  since,  beneath  Dunfermline's  nave, 
King  Alexander  fills  his  grave, 

Our  Lady  give  him  rest ! 
Yet  still  the  knightly  spear  and  shield 
The  Elfin  Warrior  doth  wield 

Upon  the  brown  hill's  breast. 
And  many  a  knight  hath  proved  his  chance 
In  the  charmed  ring  to  break  a  lance, 

But  all  have  foully  sped  ; 
Save  two,  as  legends  tell,  and  they 
Were  Wallace  wight  and  Gilbert  Hay.  — 

Gentles,  my  tale  is  said.' 

XXVI. 

The  quaighs  were  deep,  the  liquor  strong. 
And  on  the  tale  the  yeoman-throng 
Had  made  a  comment  sage  and  long, 

But  Marmion  gave  a  sign  : 
And  with  their  lord  the  squires  retire. 
The  rest  around  the  hostel  fire 

Their  drowsy  limbs  recline ; 
For  pillow,  underneath  each  head, 
The  quiver  and  the  targe  were  laid. 
Deep  slumbering  on  the  hostel  floor. 
Oppressed  with  toil  and  ale,  they  snore  ; 


154  MARMION. 

Tlie  dying  flame,  in  fitful  change, 
Threw  on  the  group  its  shadows  strange. 


XXVII. 

Apart,  and  nestling  in  the  hay 
Of  a  waste  loft,  Fitz-Eustace  lay  ; 
Scarce  by  the  pale  moonlight  were  seen 
The  foldings  of  his  mantle  green  : 
Lightly  he  dreamt,  as  youth  will  dream, 
Of  sport  by  thicket,  or  by  stream. 
Of  hawk  or  hound,  or  ring  or  glove, 
Or,  lighter  yet,  of  lady's  love. 
A  cautious  tread  his  slumber  broke, 
And,  close  beside  him  when  he  woke. 
In  moonbeam  half,  and  half  in  gloom, 
Stood  a  tall  form  with  nodding  plume; 
But,  ere  his  dagger  Eustace  drew. 
His  master  Marmion's  voice  he  knew  . 


XXVIII. 

'  Fitz-Eustace  !  rise,  —  I  cannot  rest ; 
Yon  churl's  wild  legend  haunts  my  breast, 
And  graver  thoughts  have  chafed  my  mood ; 
The  air  must  cool  my  feverish  blood, 
And  fain  would  I  ride  forth  to  see 
The  scene  of  elfin  chivalry. 
Arise,  and  saddle  me  my  steed ; 
And,  gentle  Eustace,  take  good  heed 


156  MARMION. 

Thou  (lost  not  rouse  these  drowsy  slaves  ; 
I  woukl  not  that  the  prating-  knaves 
Had  cause  for  saying-,  o'er  their  ale, 
That  I  could  credit  such  a  tale.' 
Then  softly  down  the  steps  they  slid, 
Eustace  the  stable  door  undid, 
And,  darkling,  Marraioti's  steed  arrayed. 
While,  whispering,  thus  the  baron  said  :  - 


XXIX. 

'  Didst  never,  good  my  youth,  hear  tell 

That  on  the  hour  when  I  was  born 
Saint  George,  who  graced  my  sire's  chapelle, 
Down  from  his  steed  of  marble  fell, 

A  weary  wight  forlorn  ? 
The  flattering  chaplains  all  agree 
The  champion  left  his  steed  to  me. 
1  Avould,  the  omen's  truth  to  show, 
That  I  could  meet  this  elfin  foe ! 
Blithe  would  1  battle  for  the  right 
To  ask  one  question  at  the  sprite.  — 
Vain  thought !  for  elves,  if  elves  there  be, 
An  empty  race,  by  fount  or  sea 
To  dashing  Avaters  dance  and  sing. 
Or  round  the  green  oak  wheel  their  ring.' 
Thus  speaking,  he  his  steed  bestrode, 
And  from  the  hostel  slowly  rode. 


THE  HOSTEL,   OR  INN.  157 


XXX. 


Fitz-Eustace  followed  him  abroad, 
And  marked  him  pace  the  village  road, 

And  listened  to  his  liorse's  tramp, 
Till,  by  the  lessening-  sound, 

He  judged  that  of  the  Pietish  camp 
Lord  Marmion  sought  the  round. 
Wonder  it  seemed,  in  the  squire's  eyes, 
That  one,  so  wary  held  and  wise,  — 
Of  whom  't  was  said,  he  scarce  received 
For  gospel  what  the  Church  believed,  — 

Should,  stirred  by  idle  tale, 
Eide  forth  in  silence  of  the  night, 
As  hoping  half  to  meet  a  sprite, 

Arrayed  in  plate  and  mail. 
For  little  did  Fitz-Eustace  know 
That  passions  in  contending  flow 

Unfix  the  strongest  mind  ; 
Wearied  from  doubt  to  doubt  to  flee, 
We  welcome  fond  credulity, 

Guide  confident,  though  blind. 


XXXI. 


Little  for  this  Fitz-Eustace  cared. 
But  patient  waited  till  he  heard 
At  distance,  pricked  to  utmost  speed. 
The  foot-tramp  of  a  flying  steed 


158  M ARM  I  ON. 

Come  townward  rushing  on ; 
First,  dead,  as  if  ou  turf  it  trode. 
Then,  clattering  on  the  village  road,  — 
In  other  pace  than  forth  he  yode, 

Keturned  Lord  Marinion. 
Down  hastily  he  sprung  from  sella, 
And  in  his  haste  wellnigh  he  fell ; 
To  the  squire's  hand  the  reiu  he  threw, 
And  spoke  no  word  as  he  withdrew  : 
But  yet  the  moonlight  did  betray 
The  falcon-crest  was  soiled  with  clay ; 
And  plainly  might  Fitz-Eustace  see. 
By  stains  upon  the  charger's  knee 
And  his  left  side,  that  ou  the  moor 
He  had  not  kept  his  footing  sure. 
Long  musing  on  these  wondrous  signs, 
At  length  to  rest  the  squire  reclines, 
Broken  and  short ;  for  still  between 
Woidd  dreams  of  terror  intervene  : 
Eustace  did  ne'er  so  blithely  mark 
The  first  notes  of  the  morning  lark. 


CANTO    FOURTH. 

THE   CAMP. 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO   FOURTH. 


TO   JAMES   SKENE,   ESQ. 


Ashestiel,  Ettrick  Forest. 

An  ancient  Minstrel  sagely  said, 

'Where  is  the  life  which  late  we  led?' 

That  motley  clown  in  Arden  wood, 

Whom  humorous  Jaqucs  with  envy  viewed, 

Not  even  that  clown  could  amplify 

On  this  trite  text  so  long  as  I. 

Eleven  years  we  now  may  tell 

Since  we  have  known  each  other  well. 

Since,  riding  side  by  side,  our  hand 

First  drew  the  voluntary  brand  ; 

And  sure,  through  many  a  varied  scene, 

Unkinduess  never  came  between. 

Away  these  winged  years  liave  flown. 

To  join  the  mass  of  ages  gone  ; 


162  MARMION. 

And  though  deep  marked,  like  all  below, 
With  checkered  shades  of  joy  and  woe, 
Though  thou  o'er  realms  and  seas  hast  ranged. 
Marked  cities  lost  and  empires  changed, 
Winie  liere  at  home  my  narrower  ken 
Somewhat  of  manners  saw  and  men  ; 
Though  varying  wishes,  hopes,  and  fears 
Fevered  the  progress  of  these  years. 
Yet  now,  days,  weeks,  and  mouths  but  seem 
The  recollection  of  a  dream. 
So  still  we  glide  down  to  the  sea 
Of  fathomless  eternity. 

Even  now  it  scarcely  seems  a  day 
Since  first  I  tuned  tliis  idle  lay; 
A  task  so  often  thrown  aside. 
When  leisure  graver  cares  denied. 
That  now  November's  dreary  gale. 
Whose  voice  inspired  my  opening  tale, 
That  same  November  gale  once  more 
Whirls  the  dry  leaves  on  Yarr6w  sliore. 
Their  vexed  boughs  streaming  to  the  sky. 
Once  more  our  naked  birches  sigh. 
And  Blackhouse  heights  and  Ettrick  Pen 
Have  donned  their  wintry  shrouds  again. 
And  mountain  dark  and  flooded  mead 
Bid  us  forsake  the  banks  of  Tweed. 
Earlier  than  wont  along  the  sky. 
Mixed  with  tlie  rack,  the  snow  mists  fly ; 
The  shepherd  who,  in  summer  sun, 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  FOURTH.     1G3 

Had  something;  of  our  envy  won, 

As  thou  with  pencil,  1  with  pen. 

The  features  traced  of  hill  and  glen,  — 

He  who,  outstretched  the  livelong  (lay. 

At  ease  among  the  heath-llowers  lay, 

Viewed  the  light  clouds  with  vacant  look, 

Or  slumbered  o'er  his  tattered  book, 

Or  idly  busied  him  to  guide 

His  angle  o'er  the  lessened  tide,  — 

At  midnight  now  the  snowy  plain 

Finds  sterner  labor  for  the  swain. 

When  red  hath  set  the  beamless  sun 
Througli  heavy  vapors  dank  and  dun. 
When  the  tired  ploughman,  dry  and  warm, 
Hears,  half  asleep,  the  rising  storm 
Hurling  the  hail  and  sleeted  rain 
Against  the  casement's  tinkling  pane ; 
The  sounds  that  drive  wild  deer  and  fox 
To  shelter  in  the  brake  and  rocks 
Are  warnings  which  the  shepherd  ask 
To  dismal  and  to  dangerous  task. 
Oft  he  looks  forth,  and  hopes,  in  vain, 
The  blast  may  sink  in  mellowing  rain ; 
Till,  dark  above  and  white  below. 
Decided  drives  the  flaky  snow. 
And  forth  the  hardy  swain  nnist  go. 
Long,  with  dejected  look  and  whine. 
To  leave  the  hearth  his  dogs  repine; 
Whistling  and  cheering  them  to  aid, 


164  MARMION. 

Around  his  back  he  wreaths  the  plaid  : 

His  flock  he  gathers  and  he  g-uides 

To  open  downs  and  mountain-sides, 

Where  fiercest  though  the  tempest  blow, 

Least  deeply  lies  the  drift  below. 

The  blast  that  whistles  o'er  the  fells 

Stiffens  his  locks  to  icicles ; 

Oft  he  looks  back  while,  streaming  far, 

His  cottage  window  seems  a  star,  — 

Loses  its  feeble  gleam, — and  then 

Turns  patient  to  the  blast  again. 

And,  facing  to  the  tempest's  sweep. 

Drives  through  the  gloom  his  lagging  sheep. 

If  fails  his  heart,  if  his  limbs  fail. 

Benumbing  death  is  in  the  gale ; 

His  paths,  his  landmarks,  all  unknown. 

Close  to  the  hut,  no  more  his  own, 

Close  to  the  aid  he  sought  in  vain, 

The  morn  may  find  the  stiffened  swain : 

The  widow  sees,  at  dawning  pale. 

His  orphans  raise  their  feeble  wail ; 

And,  close  beside  him  in  tlie  snow, 

Poor  Yarrow,  partner  of  their  woe, 

Couches  upon  his  master's  breast. 

And  licks  his  cheek  to  break  his  rest. 

Who  envies  now  the  shepherd's  lot. 
His  healthy  fare,  his  rural  cot. 
His  summer  couch  by  greenwood  tree. 
His  rustic  kirn's  loud  revelrv. 


INTRODUCTION  TO    CANTO  FOURTH.     165 

His  native  hill-notes  tuned  on  high 
To  Marion  of  the  blithesome  eye, 
His  crook,  his  scrip,  his  oaten  recti, 
And  all  Arcatlia's  g-okleu  creed? 

Changes  not  so  with  us,  my  Skene, 
Of  human  life  the  varying  scene  ? 
Our  youthful  sumnn'r  oft  we  see 
Dance  by  on  wings  of  game  and  glee, 
While  the  dark  storm  reserves  its  rage 
Against  the  winter  of  our  age  ; 
As  he,  the  ancient  chief  of  Troy, 
His  manhood  spent  in  peace  and  joy, 
But  Grecian  fires  and  loud  alarms 
Called  ancient  Priam  forth  to  arms. 
Then  happy  those,  since  each  must  drain 
His  share  of  pleasure,  share  of  pain,  — 
Then  happy  those,  beloved  of  Heaven, 
To  whom  the  mingled  cup  is  given ; 
Whose  lenient  sorrows  find  relief. 
Whose  joys  are  chastened  by  their  grief. 
And  such  a  lot,  my  Skene,  was  thine, 
When  thou  of  late  wert  doomed  to  twine  — 
Just  when  thy  bridal  iiour  was  by  — 
The  cypress  Avith  the  myrtle  tie. 
Just  on  thy  bride  her  sire  had  smiled. 
And  blessed  the  union  of  his  child. 
When  love  must  change  its  joyous  cheer, 
And  wipe  affection's  filial  tear. 
Nor  did  the  actions  next  his  end 


166  MARMION. 

Speak  more  the  father  than  the  friend : 
Scarce  had  lamented  Forbes  paid 
The  tribute  to  his  minstrel's  shade, 
The  tale  of  friendship  scarce  was  told, 
Ere  the  narrator's  heart  was  cold  — 
Far  may  we  search  before  we  find 
A  heart  so  manly  and  so  knid  ! 
But  not  around  his  honored  urn 
Shall  friends  alone  and  kindred  mourn  ; 
The  thousand  eyes  his  care  had  dried 
Pour  at  his  name  a  bitter  tide, 
And  frequent  falls  the  grateful  dew 
For  benefits  the  world  ne'er  knew. 
If  mortal  charity  tlare  claim 
The  Almighty's  attributed  name. 
Inscribe  above  his  mouldering  clay, 
•The  widow's  shield,  the  orphan's  stay.' 
Nor,  though  it  wake  thy  sorrow,  deem 
My  verse  intrudes  on  this  sad  theme. 
For  sacred  Avas  the  pen  that  wrote, 
'  Thy  father's  friend  forget  thou  not ;  ' 
And  gratefid  title  may  I  plead, 
For  many  a  kindly  word  and  deed, 
To  bring  my  tribute  to  his  grave  :  — 
'T  is  little  —  but  't  is  all  I  have. 

To  thee,  perchance,  this  rambling  strain 
Recalls  our  summer  Avalks  again  ; 
When,  doing  nought,  —  and,  to  speak  true, 
Not  anxious  to  find  aught  to  do,  — 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  FOURTH.     l67 

Till!  wild  unbounded  hills  we  ranged, 

While  oft  our  talk  its  topic  chaiigcd, 

And,  desultory  as  our  way. 

Ranged  uneonfined  from  grave  to  gay. 

Even  when  it  flagged,  as  oft  will  chance. 

No  effort  made  to  break  its  trance, 

We  could  right  pleasantly  pursue 

Our  sports  in  social  silence  too  ; 

Thou  gravely  laboring  to  portray 

The  blighted  oak's  fantastic  spray, 

I  spelling  o'er  with  much  delight 

The  legend  of  that  antique  knight, 

Tirante  by  name,  ycleped  the  White. 

At  cither's  feet  a  trusty  squire, 

Pandour  and  Camp,  with  eyes  of  tire. 

Jealous  each  other's  motions  viewed. 

And  scarce  suppressed  their  ancient  feud. 

The  laverock  whistled  from  the  cloud  ; 

The  stream  was  lively,  but  not  loud  ; 

Prom  the  white  thorn  the  May-flower  shed 

Its  dewy  fragrance  round  our  head  : 

Not  Ariel  lived  more  merrily 

Under  the  blossomed  bough  than  we. 

And  blithesome  nights,  too,  have  been  ours. 
When  Winter  stript  the  Summer's  bowers. 
Careless  we  heard,  what  now  I  hear, 
The  wild  blast  sighing  deep  and  drear. 
When  fires  were  bright  and  lamps  beamed  gay, 
And  ladies  tuned  the  lovely  lay, 


168  MARMION. 

And  lie  was  held  a  lao;o;ard  soul 

Who  shunned  to  quaff  the  sparkling  bowl. 

Then  he  whose  absence  we  deplore, 

Who  breathes  the  gales  of  Devon's  shore, 

The  longer  missed,  bewailed  the  more, 

And  thou,  and  I,  and  dear-loved  Rae, 

And  one  whose  name  I  may  not  say,  — 

For  not  mimosa's  tender  tree 

Shrinks  sooner  from  the  touch  than  lie,  — 

In  merry  chorus  well  combined, 

With  laughter  drowned  the  whistling  wind. 

Mirth  was  within,  and  Care  without 

Might  gnaw  her  nails  to  hear  our  shout. 

Not  but  amid  tlie  buxom  scene 

Some  grave  discourse  might  intervene  — 

Of  the  good  horse  that  bore  him  best, 

His  shoulder,  hoof,  and  arching  crest ; 

Por,  like  mad  Tom's,  our  chiefest  care 

Was  horse  to  ride  and  Aveapon  wear. 

Such  nights  we  've  had  ;  and,  though  the  game 

Of  manhood  be  more  sober  tame. 

And  though  the  field-day  or  the  drill 

Seem  less  important  now,  yet  still 

Such  may  we  hope  to  share  again. 

The  sprightly  thought  inspires  my  strain  ! 

And  mark  how,  like  a  horseman  true, 

Lord  Marmion's  march  I  thus  renew. 


CANTO  FOURTH. 

THE   CAMP. 

I. 

Eustace,  I  said,  did  blithely  mark 
The  first  notes  of  the  merry  lark. 
The  lark  sang  shrill,  the  cock  he  crew, 
And  loudly  Marmion's  bugles  blew, 
And  Avith  their  light  and  lively  call 
Brought  groom  and  yeoman  to  the  stall. 

Whistling  they  came  and  free  of  heai-t, 
But  soon  their  mood  was  changed ; 

Complaint  was  heard  on  every  part 
Of  something  disari'anged. 
Some  clamored  loud  for  armor  lost ;  . 
Some  brawled  and  wrangled  with  the  host; 
'  By  Becket's  bones,'  cried  one,  '  I  fear 
That  some  false  Scot  has  stolen  my  spear ! ' 
Young  Blount,  Lord  Marmion's  second  squire, 
Pound  his  steed  wet  with  sweat  and  mire, 
Although  the  rated  horseboy  sware 
Last  night  he  dressed  him  sleek  and  fair. 


170     .  MARMION. 

While  chafed  the  impatient  squire  like  thunder, 

Old  Hubert  shouts,  in  fear  and  wonder,  — 

'  Help,  gentle  Blount !  help,  comrades  all ! 

Bevis  lies  dying  in  his  stall ; 

To  Marmion  who  the  plight  dare  tell 

Of  the  good  steed  he  loves  so  well  ?  ' 

Gaping  for  fear  and  ruth,  they  saw 

The  charger  panting  on  his  straw ; 

Till  one,  who  would  seem  wisest,  cried, 

'  What  else  but  evil  could  betide. 

With  that  cursed  Palmer  for  our  guide  ? 

Better  we  had  throuo-h  mire  and  bush 

Been  lantern-led  by  Friar  Kush.' 


II. 

Fitz-Eustace,  who  the  cause  but  guessed, 

Nor  wholly  understood, 
His  comrades'  clamorous  plaints  suppressed  ; 

He  knew  Lord  Marniion's  mood. 
Him,  ere  he  issued  forth,  he  sought. 
And  found  deep  plunged  in  gloomy  thought, 

And  did  his  tale  display 
Simply,  as  if  he  knew  of  nought 

To  cause  such  disarray. 
Lord  Marmion  gave  attention  cold, 
Nor  marvelled  at  the  wonders  told, — 
Passed  them  as  accidents  of  course. 
And  bade  his  clarions  sound  to  horse. 


THE   CAMP.  171 


III. 

Young  Henry  Blount,  meanwhile,  the  cost 
Had  reckoned  with  their  Scottish  host ; 
And,  as  the  charge  he  cast  and  paid, 
'  111  thou  deserv'st  thy  hire,'  he  said  ; 
'  Dost  see,  thou  knave,  my  horse's  plight  ? 
Pairies  have  ridden  him  all  the  night. 

And  left  him  in  a  foam  ! 
I  trust  that  soon  a  conjuring  band, 
With  English  cross  and  blazing  brand. 
Shall  drive  the  devils  from  this  land 

To  their. infernal  home  ; 
For  in  this  haunted  den,  I  trow, 
All  night  they  trampled  to  and  fro.' 
The  laughing  host  looked  on  the  hire : 
'  Gramercy,  gentle  southern  squire. 
And  if  thou  com'st  among  the  rest, 
With  Scottish  broadsword  to  be  blest, 
Sharp  be  the  brand,  and  sure  the  blow, 
And  short  the  pang  to  undergo.' 
Here  stayed  their  talk,  for  Marmion 
Gave  now  the  signal  to  set  on. 
The  Palmer  showing  forth  the  way, 
They  journeyed  all  the  morning-day. 

IV. 

The  greensward  way  Avas  smooth  and  good. 
Through  Humbie's  and  through  Saltoun's  wood ; 


172  M ARM  I  ON. 

A  forest  glade,  which,  varying  still, 
Here  gave  a  view  of  dale  and  liill, 
There  narrower  closed  till  overhead 
A  vaulted  screen  the  branches  made. 
'A  pleasant  path,'  Fitz-Eustace  said  ; 
'  Such  as  where  errant-knights  might  see 
Adventures  of  high  chivalry, 
Might  meet  some  damsel  flying  fast. 
With  hair  unbound  and  looks  aghast ; 
And  smooth  and  level  course  were  here, 
In  her  defence  to  break  a  spear. 
Here,  too,  are  twilight  nooks  and  dells ; 
And  oft  in  such,  the  story  tells, 
The  damsel  kind,  from  danger  freed, 
Did  grateful  pay  her  champion's  meed.' 
He  spoke  to  cheer  Lord  Marmion's  mind, 
Perchance  to  show  his  lore  designed ; 

For  Eustace  much  had  pored 
Upon  a  huge  romantic  tome. 
In  the  hall-window  of  his  home, 
Imprinted  at  the  antique  dome 

Of  Caxton  or  de  Worde. 
Therefore  he  spoke,  —  but  spoke  in  vain, 
For  Marmion  answered  nought  again. 


Now  sudden,  distant  trumpets  shrill. 
In  notes  prolonged  by  wood  and  hill, 
Were  heard  to  echo  far ; 


THE   CAMP.  173 

Each  ready  archer  grasped  his  bow, 
But  by  the  flourish  soon  they  know 

They  breathed  no  })oint  of  war. 
Yet  cautious,  as  in  tbeinan's  hmd, 
Lord  Marniion's  order  speeds  the  band 

Some  opener  ground  to  gain  ; 
And  scarce  a  furlong  had  they  rode, 
When  thinner  trees  receding  showed 

A  little  woodland  plain. 
Just  in  that  advantae:cous  "-lade 
The  halting  troop  a  line  had  made, 
As  forth  from  the  opposing  shade 

Issued  a  gallant  train. 


VI. 

First  came  the  trumpets,  at  whose  clang 
So  late  th^  forest  echoes  rang ; 
On  prancing  steeds  they  forward  pressed. 
With  scarlet  mantle,  azure  vest ; 
Each  at  his  trump  a  banner  wore, 
Which  Scotland's  royal  scutcheon  bore  : 
Heralds  and  pursuivants,  by  name 
Bute,  Islay,  Marchmount,  Kothsay,  came. 
In  painted  tabards,  proudly  showing 
Gules,  argent,  or,  and  azure  glowing, 

Attendant  on  a  king-at-arms, 
Whose  hand  the  armorial  truncheon  held 
That  feudal  strife  had  often  quelled 

When  wildest  its  alarms. 


174  MARMION. 


VII. 

He  was  a  man  of  middle  age, 
In  aspect  manly,  grave,  antl  sage, 

As  on  king's  errand  come  : 
But  in  the  glances  of  his  eye 
A  penetrating,  keen,  and  sly 

Expression  found  its  home; 
The  flash  of  that  satiric  rage 
Which,  bursting  on  the  early  stage, 
Branded  the  vices  of  the  age. 

And  broke  the  keys  of  Rome. 
On  milk-white  palfrey  forth  he  paced ; 
His  cap  of  maintenance  was  graced 

With  the  proud  heron-plume. 
From  his  steed's  shoulder,  loin,  and  breast, 

Silk  housings  swept  the  ground, 
With  Scotland's  arms,  device,  and  crest, 

Embroidered  round  and  I'ound. 
The  double  tressure  might  you  see, 

First  by  Achaius  borne. 
The  thistle  and  the  fleur-de-lis.. 

And  gallant  unicorn. 
So  bright  the  king's  armorial  coat 
That  scarce  the  dazzled  eye  could  note, 
In  living  colors  blazoned  brave. 
The  Lion,  which  his  title  gave  ; 
A  train,  which  well  beseemed  his  state. 
But  all  unarmed,  around  him  wait. 


THE   CAMP.  175 

Still  is  thy  name  in  lii<>li  account, 

And  still  thy  verse  hath  charms, 
Sir  David  Lindesav  of  the  Mount, 

Lord  Lion  King-at-arms ! 


VIII. 

Down  from  his  horse  did  Marmion  spring 

Soon  as  he  saw  the  Lion-King ; 

For  well  the  stately  baron  knew 

To  him  such  courtesy  was  due 

Whom  royal  James  himself  had  crowned, 

And  on  his  temples  placed  the  round 

Of  Scotland's  ancient  diadem, 
And  wet  his  brow  with  hallowed  wine, 
And  on  his  finger  given  to  shine 

The  emblematic  gem. 
Their  mutual  greetings  duly  made, 
The  Lion  thus  his  message  said  :  — 
'  Though  Scotland's  King  hath  deeply  swore 
Ne'er  to  knit  faith  with  Henry  more. 
And  strictly  hath  forbid  resort 
Prom  England  to  his  royal  court, 
Yet,  for  he  knows  Lord  Marinion's  name 
And  honors  much  his  warlike  fame, 
My  liege  hath  deemed  it  shame  and  lack 
Of  courtesy  to  turn  him  back  ; 
And  by  his  order  I,  your  guide. 
Must  lodging  fit  and  fair  provide 


176  MARMION. 

Till  finds  King  James  meet  time  to  see 
The  flower  of  English  chivalry.' 


IX. 

Tliough  inly  chafed  at  this  delay, 
Lord  Maruiion  bears  it  as  he  may. 
The  Palmer,  his  mysterious  guide, 
Beholding  thus  his  place  supplied, 

Sought  to  take  leave  in  vain  ; 
Strict  was  the  Lion-King's  command 
That  none  Avho  rode  in  Marmion's  band 

Should  sever  from  the  train. 
'  England  has  here  enow  of  spies 
In  Lady  Heron's  witching  eyes  : ' 
To  Marchmount  thus  apart  he  said. 
But  fair  pretext  to  Marmion  made. 
The  right-hand  path  they  now  decline, 
And  trace  against  the  stream  the  Tyne. 

X. 

At  length  up  that  Avild  dale  they  wind, 
I        Where  Crichtoun  Castle  crowns  the  bank; 
Eor  there  the  Lion's  care  assigned 

A  lodging  meet  for  Marmion's  rank. 
That  castle  rises  on  the  steep 

Of  the  green  vale  of  Tyne  ; 
And  far  beneath,  where  slow  they  creep 
From  pool  to  eddy,  dark  and  deep. 


178  M ARM  I  ON. 

Where  alders  moist  and  willows  weep, 

You  hear  her  streams  repine. 
The  towers  iu  different  ages  rose, 
Their  various  architecture  shows 

The  builders'  various  hands  ; 
A  mighty  mass,  that  could  oppose. 
When  deadliest  hatred  fired  its  foes. 
The  vengeful  Douglas  bands. 


XI. 


Crichtoun  !  though  now  thy  miry  court 
But  pens  the  lazy  steer  and  sheep, 
Thy  turrets  rude  and  tottered  keep 

Have  been  the  minstrel's  loved  resort. 

Oft  have  I  traced,  within  thy  fort, 

Of  mouldering  shields  the  mystic  sense, 
Scutcheons  of  honor  or  pretence, 

Quartered  in  old  armorial  sort, 
Eemains  of  rude  magnificence. 

Nor  wholly  yet  hath  time  defaced 
Thy  lordly  gallery  fair, 

Nor  yet  the  stony  cord  unbraced 

Whose  twisted  knots,  with  roses  laced, 
Adorn  thy  ruined  stair. 

Still  rises  unimpaired  below 

The  court-yard's  graceful  portico  ; 

Al)ove  its  cornice,  row  and  row 

Of  fair  hewn  facets  richly  show 
Their  pointed  diamond  form. 


THE   CAMP.  179 

Though  there  but  houseless  cattle  go. 

To  shield  them  from  the  storm. 
And,  shuddering,  still  may  we  explore. 

Where  oft  whilom  were  captives  pent, 
The  darkness  of  thy  Massy  More, 

Or,  from  thy  grass-grown  battlement, 
May  trace  in  undulating  line 
The  sluggish  mazes  of  the  Tyne. 

XII. 

Another  aspect  Crichtoun  showed 

As  through  its  portal  Marmion  rode; 

But  yet  't  was  melancholy  state 

Received  him  at  the  outer  gate. 

For  none  were  in  the  castle  then 

But  women,  boys,  or  aged  men. 

With  eyes  scarce  dried,  the  sorrowing  dame 

To  welcome  noble  Marmion  came ; 

Her  son,  a  stripling  twelve  years  old, 

Proffered  the  baron's  rein  to  hold  ; 

For  each  man  that  could  draw  a  sword 

Had  marched  tiiat  morning  with  their  lord. 

Earl  Adam  Hepburn,  —  he  who  died 

On  Flodden  by  his  sovereign's  side. 

Long  may  his  lady  look  in  vain ! 

She  ne'er  shall  see  his  gallant  train 

Come  sweeping  back  through  Crichtoun-Dean. 

'T  was  a  brave  race  before  the  name 

Of  hated  Bothwell  stained  their  fame. 


180  MARMION. 


XIII. 


And  here  two  days  did  Marmioa  rest. 
With  every  right  that  honor  claims, 
Attended  as  the  king's  ©wn  guest ;  — 
Such  the  command  of  Royal  James, 
Who  marshalled  then  his  land's  array, 
Upon  the  Borough-moor  that  lay. 
Perchance  he  would  not  foeman's  eye 
Upon  his  gathering  host  should  pry. 
Till  full  prepared  was  every  band 
To  march  against  the  English  land. 
Here  while  they  dwelt,  did  Lindesay's  wit 
Oft  cheer  the  baron's  moodier  fit ; 
And,  in  his  turn,  he  knew  to  prize 
Lord  Marmion's  powerful  mind  and  wise,  - 
Trained  in  the  lore  of  Rome  and  Greece, 
And  policies  of  war  and  peace. 


XIV. 

It  chanced,  as  fell  the  second  night, 
That  on  the  battlements  they  walked, 

And  by  the  slowly  fading  light 
Of  varying  topics  talked  ; 

And,  unaware,  the  herald-bard 

Said  Marmion  might  his  toil  have  spared 
In  travelling  so  far, 

For  that  a  messenger  from  heaven 


THE   CAMP.  181 

In  vain  to  James  had  counsel  given 

Against  the  Englisli  war  ; 
And,  closer  questioned,  tlius  he  told 
A  tah;  whieli  ciironiclcs  of  old 
In  Scottish  slorv  have  enrolled  :  — 


XV. 

SIR    DAVID    LINDESAY's    TALE. 

'  Of  all  the  palaces  so  fair. 

Built  for  the  roval  dwelling 
In  Scotland,  far  beyond  compare 

Linlithgow  is  excelling ; 
And  ill  its  park,  in  jovial  June, 
How  sweet  the  merry  linnet's  tune, 

How  blithe  the  blackbird's  lay  ! 
The  wild  buck  bells  from  ferny  brake, 
The  coot  dives  merry  on  the  lake, 
The  saddest  heart  might  pleasure  take 

To  see  all  nature  gay. 
But  June  is  to  our  sovereign  dear 
The  heaviest  month  in  all  the  year ; 
Too  well  his  cause  of  grief  you  know, 
June  saw  his  father's  overthrow. 
Woe  to  the  traitors  who  could  bring 
The  princely  boy  against  his  king ! 
Still  in  his  conscience  burns  the  sting. 
In  offices  as  strict  as  Lent 
King  James's  June  is  ever  spent. 


132  MARMION. 


XVI. 


'  When  last  this  ruthful  month  was  come, 
And  in  Linlithgow's  holy  dome 

The  king-,  as  wont,  was  praying ; 
While  for  his  royal  father's  soul 
The  chanter's  sung,  the  bells  did  toll, 

The  bishop  mass  was  saying  — 
Por  now  the  year  brought  round  again 
The  day  the  luckless  king  was  slain  — 
In  Catherine's  aisle  the  monarch  knelt, 
With  sackcloth  shirt  and  iron  belt, 

And  eyes  with  sorrow  streaming ; 
Around  him  in  their  stalls  of  state 
The  Thistle's  Knight-Companions  sate, 

Their  banners  o'er  them  beaming. 
I  too  Avas  there,  and,  sooth  to  tell, 
Bedeafened  with  the  jangling  knell, 
Was  watching  Avhere  the  sunbeams  fell 

Through  the  stained  casement  glcammg 
But  while  I  marked  what  next  befell 

It  seemed  as  I  were  dreaming. 
Stepped  from  the  crowd  a  ghostly  wight. 
In  azure  gown,  Avith  cincture  white; 
His  forehead  bald,  his  head  was  bare, 
Down  hung  at  length  his  yellow  hair.  — 
Now,  mock  me  not  when,  good  my  lord, 
I  pledge  to  you  my  knightly  word 
That  when  I  saw  his  placid  grace. 


THE  CAMP.  18S 

His  simple  majesty  of  face, 

His  solemn  bearing,  and  his  pace 

So  stately  gliding"  on, — 
Seemed  to  mc  ne'er  did  limner  paint 
So  just  an  image  of  the  saint 
Who  propped  the  Virgin  in  her  faint, 

The  loved  Apostle  John  ! 


XVII. 

'  He  stepped  before  the  monarch's  chair, 
And  stood  with  rustic  plainness  there. 

And  little  reverence  made  ; 
Nor  head,  nor  body,  bowed,  nor  bent, 
But  on  the  desk  his  arm  he  leant, 

And  words  like  these  he  said, 
In  a  low  voice,  —  l)ut  never  tone 
So  thrilled  through  vein,  and  nerve,  and  bone  :  — 
"  My  mother  sent  mc  from  afar. 
Sir  King,  to  warn  thee  not  to  war,  — 

Woe  waits  on  thine  array  ; 
If  war  thou  wilt,  of  woman  fair. 
Her  witching  wiles  and  wanton  snare, 
James  Stuart,  doubly  warned,  beware  : 

God  keep  thee  as  he  may  !  "  — 
The  wondering  monarch  seemed  to  seek 

For  answer,  and  found  none ; 
And  when  he  raised  his  head  to  speak. 

The  monitor  was  gone. 
The  marshal  and  myself  had  cast 


184  MARMION. 

To  stop  him  as  he  outward  passed  ; 
But,  lig-liter  than  the  Avhirlwind's  blast, 

He  vanished  from  our  eyes, 
Like  sunbeam  on  the  biHow  cast, 

That  glances  but,  and  dies.' 


XVIII. 

While  Lindesay  told  his  marvel  strange 

The  twilight  was  so  pale. 
He  marked  not  Marmion's  color  change 

While  listening  to  the  tale  ; 
But,  after  a  suspended  pause. 
The  baron  spoke :   '  Of  Nature's  laws 

So  strong  I  held  the  force, 
That  never  superhuman  cause 

Could  e'er  control  their  course. 
And,  three  days  since,  had  judged  your  aim 
Was  but  to  make  your  guest  your  game  ; 
But  I  have  seen,  since  past  the  T^veed, 
What  much  has  changed  my  sceptic  creed, 
And  made  me  credit  aiight.'  —  He  stayed. 
And  seemed  to  wish  his  words  unsaid, 
But,  by  that  strong  emotion  pressed 
Which  prompts  us  to  unload  our  breast 

Even  when  discovery  's  pain. 
To  Lindesay  did  at  lengtli  unfold 
The  tale  his  village  host  had  told, 

At  Gifford,  to  his  train. 


THE   CAMP.  185 

Nous^lit  of  tljfi  Palmer  says  lie  there, 
And  nought  of  Constance  or  of  Clare  ; 
The  thoni>-lits  which  broke  liis  sleep  he  seems 
To  mention  but  as  feverish  dreams. 


XIX. 

'In  vain,'  said  he,  '  to  rest  I  spread 

My  burning  limbs,  and  couched  my  head  ; 

Fantastic  thoughts  returned, 
And,  by  their  wild  dominion  led, 

My  heart  within  me  burned. 
So  sore  was  the  delirious  goad, 
I  took  my  steed  and  forth  I  rode, 
And,  as  the  moon  shone  bright  and  cold, 
Soon  reached  the  camp  upon  the  wold. 
The  southern  entrance  I  passed  through, 
And  halted,  and  my  bugle  blew. 
Methought  an  answer  met  my  ear,  — 
Yet  was  the  blast  so  low  and  drear, 
S3  hollow,  and  so  faintly  blown. 
It  might  be  echo  of  my  own. 


XX. 

'  Thus  judging,  for  a  little  space 
I  listened  ere  I  left  the  place, 

But  scarce  could  trust  my  eyes, 
Nor  yet  can  think  they  serve  me  true, 
When  sudden  in  the  ring  I  view. 


186  MARMION. 

In  form  distinct  of  shape  and  hue, 

A  mounted  champion  rise.  — 
I  've  fought,  Lord-Lion,  many  a  day. 
In  single  fight  and  mixed  affray, 
And  ever,  I  myself  may  say. 

Have  borne  me  as  a  knight ; 
But  when  this  unexpected  foe 
Seemed  starting  from  the  gulf  below,  ■ 
I  care  not  tliough  the  truth  I  show,  - 

I  trembled  with  affright ; 
And  as  I  placed  in  rest  my  spear, 
My  hand  so  shook  for  very  fear, 

I  scarce  could  couch  it  right. 


XXI. 

'  Why  need  my  tongue  the  issue  tell  ? 
We  ran  our  course,  —  my  charger  fell ;  — 
What  could  he  'gainst  the  shock  of  hell  ? 

I  rolled  upon  the  plain. 
High  o'er  my  head  with  threatening  hand 
The  spectre  shook  his  naked  brand,  — 

Yet  did  the  worst  remain  : 
My  dazzled  eyes  I  upward  cast,  — 
Not  opening  hell  itself  could  blast 

Their  sight  like  what  I  saw  ! 
Pull  on  his  face  the  moonbeam  strook  !  — 
A  face  could  never  be  mistook ! 
I  knew  tlic  stern  vindictive  look. 


188  HARM  I  ON. 

And  held  my  breath  for  awe. 
I  saw  the  face  of  one  who,  fled 
To  foreign  climes,  has  long  been  dead,  — 

I  well  l)elieve  the  last ; 
For  ne'er  from  visor  raised  did  stare 
A  human  warrior  witli  a  glare 

So  grimly  and  so  ghast. 
Thrice  o'er  my  head  he  shook  the  blade ; 
But  when  to  good  Saint  George  I  prayed,  — 
The  first  time  e'er  I  asked  his  aid, — 

He  plunged  it  in  the  slieath. 
And,  on  his  courser  mounting  light, 
He  seemed  to  vanish  fi'om  my  sight  : 
The  moonbeam  drooped,  and  deepest  night 

Sunk  down  upon  the  heath.  — 
'T  were  long  to  tell  what  cause  I  have 

To  know  his  face  that  met  me  there. 
Called  by  his  hatred  from  the  grave 

To  cumber  upper  air  ; 
Dead  or  alive,  good  cause  had  he 
To  be  my  mortal  enemy.' 


XXII. 

Marvelled  Sir  David  of  the  Mount ; 
Then,  learned  in  story,  gan  recount 

Such  chance  had  happed  of  old, 
When  once,  near  Norhani,  there  did  fight 
A  spectre  fell  of  fiendish  miglit, 


THE   CAMP.  189 

In  likeness  of  a  Scottish  knight, 

With  Brian  Bnlnier  bokl, 
And  trained  liini  nigh  to  disallow 
The  aid  of  his  baptismal  vow. 
'  And  such  a  phantom,  too,  't  is  said, 
With  Highland  broadsword,  targe,  and  plaid, 

And  fingers  red  with  gore, 
Is  seen  in  Rothicninrcns  glade. 
Or  where  the  sable  pine-trees  shade 
Dark  Tomantoul,  and  Auehnaslaid, 

Dromouchty,  or  Glenniore. 
And  yet,  whate'er  such  legends  say 
Of  warlike  demon,  ghost,  or  fay. 

On  mountain,  moor,  or  phiin. 
Spotless  in  faith,  in  bosom  bold. 
True  son  of  chivalry  should  hold 

Tliese  midnight  terrors  vain ; 
Tor  seldom  have  such  spirits  power 
To  harm,  save  in  the  evil  liour 
When  (jnilt  we  meditate  within 
Or  harbor  nnrepented  sin.'  — 
Lord  Marmion  turned  him  half  aside. 
And  twice  to  clear  his  voice  he  tried. 

Then  pressed  Sir  David's  hand,  — • 
But  nought,  at  length,  in  answer  said ; 
And  here  their  further  converse  stayed, 

Each  ordering  that  his  band 
Should  bowne  them  with  the  rising  day. 
To  Scotland's  camp  to  take  their  Avay,  — 

Such  was  the  kinir's  command. 


190  MARMION. 


XXIII. 


Early  they  took  Dun-Edin's  road, 
And  I  could  trace  each  step  they  trode ; 
Hill,  brook,  nor  dell,  nor  rock,  nor  stone, 
Lies  on  the  patli  to  me  unknown. 
Much  might  it  boast  of  storied  lore  ; 
But,  passhig  such  digression  o'er, 
Suffice  it  that  their  route  was  laid 
Across  the  furzy  hills  of  Braid. 
They  passed  the  glen  and  scanty  rill. 
And  climbed  the  opposing  bank,  untd 
They  gained  the  top  of  Blackford  Hill. 


XXIV. 


Blackford  !   on  whose  uncultured  breast. 

Among  the  broom  and  thorn  and  whin, 
A  truant-boy,  I  sought  the  nest, 
Or  listed,  as  I  lay  at  rest, 

While  rose  on  breezes  thin 
The  nnirmur  of  the  city  crowd. 
And,  from  his  steeple  jangling  loud, 

Saint  Giles's  mingling  din. 
Now,  from  the  summit  to  the  plain. 
Waves  all  the  hill  with  yellow  grain ; 

And  o'er  the  landscape  as  I  look. 
Nought  do  I  see  unchanged  remain, 

Save  the  rude  cliffs  and  chiming  brook. 


THE   CAMP.  191 


To  me  they  make  a  heavy  moan 
Of  early  friendships  past  and  gone. 


XXV. 

But  different  far  the  cliang-c  lias  been, 

Since  Marinion  from  the  crown 
Of  Blackford  saw  that  martial  scene 

L'pon  the  bent  so  brown  : 
Thousand  pavilions,  white  as  snow, 
Spread  all  the  l^orougli-moor  below, 

Upland,  and  dale,  and  down. 
A  thousand  did  I  say  ?     I  ween, 
Thousands  on  thousands  there  were  seen, 
That  checkered  all  the  heath  betAveen 

The  strcandet  and  the  town, 
In  crossing-  ranks  extending  far, 
Forming  a  camp  irregular  ; 
Oft  giving  way  where  still  there  stood 
Some  relics  of  the  old  oak  wood, 
That  darkly  huge  did  intervene 
And  tamed  the  glaring  white  with  green  : 
In  these  extended  lines  there  lay 
A  martial  kingdom's  vast  array. 


XXVI. 

For  from  Hebudcs,  dark  with  rain, 
To  eastern  Lodon's  fertile  plain, 
And  fi'om  the  southern  Bedswire  edge 


19-Z  MARMION. 

To  furthest  Rosse's  rocky  ledge, 
From  west  to  east,  from  south  to  north, 
Scotland  sent  all  her  warriors  forth. 
Maruiion  might  hear  the  mingled  hum 
Of  myriads  up  the  mountain  come,  — 
The  horses'  tramp  and  tinkling  clank. 
Where  chiefs  reviewed  their  vassal  rank, 

And  charger's  shrilling  neigh,  — 
Antl  see  the  shifting  lines  advance, 
Wliile  frequent  flashed  from  shield  and  lance 

The  sun's  reflected  ray. 

XXVII. 

Tliin  curling  in  the  morning  air, 

The  wreaths  of  failing  smoke  declare 

To  embers  now  the  brands  decayed, 

Where  the  night-watch  their  fires  had  made. 

They  saw,  slow  rolling  on  the  phiin, 

Full  many  a  baggage-cart  and  wain. 

And  dire  artillery's  clumsy  car, 

By  sluggish  oxen  tugged  to  Avar ; 

And  there  were  Borthwick's  Sisters  Seven, 

And  culverins  which  France  had  given. 

Ill-omened  gift !  the  guns  remain 

The  conqueror's  spoil  on  Flodden  plain. 

XXVIII. 

Nor  marked  they  less  where  in  the  air 
A  thousand  streamers  flaunted  fair; 


THE   CAMP.  193 

Various  in  shape,  device,  and  hue, 
Green,  sanguine,  purple,  red,  and  blue, 
Broad,  narrow,  swallow-tailed,  and  square, 
Scroll,  pennon,  pencil,  bandrol,  there 

O'er  the  pavilions  flew. 
Hij>lu'st  and  midmost,  was  descried 
The  royal  banner  floating-  wide ; 

The  staft",  a  pine-tree,  strong  and  straight. 
Pitched  deeply  in  a  massive  stone, 
Which  still  in  memory  is  shown. 
Yet  bent  beneath  the  standard's  weight. 
Whene'er  the  western  wind  unrolled 
With  toil  the  huge  and  cumbrous  fold, 
And  gave  to  view  tlie  dazzling  field, 
Where  in  proud  Scotland's  royal  shield 
The  ruddy  lion  ramped  in  gold. 

XXIX. 

Lord  Marmion  viewed  the  landscape  bright,  — 
He  viewed  it  with  a  chief's  delight,  — 

Until  within  him  burned  his  heart. 

And  lightning  from  his  eye  did  part, 
As  on  the  battle-day  ; 

Such  glance  did  falcon  never  dart 
When  stooping  on  his  prey. 
'  Oh  !  well,  Lord-Lion,  hast  thou  said, 
Thy  king  from  warfare  to  dissuade 

Were  but  a  vain  essay  ; 
For,  by  Saint  George,  were  that  host  mine, 


194  MARMION. 

Not  power  infernal  nor  divine 
Should  once  to  peace  my  soul  incline, 
Till  I  had  dimmed  their  armor's  shine 

In  glorious  battle-fray  ! ' 
Answered  the  bard,  of  milder  mood  : 
'  Fair  is  the  sight,  —  and  yet  't  were  good 

That  kings  would  think  withal, 
When  peace  and  wealth  their  land  has  blessed, 
'T  is  better  to  sit  still  at  rest 

Than  rise,  perchance  to  fall.' 

XXX. 

Still  on  the  spot  Lord  Marmion  stayed, 
For  fairer  scene  he  ne'er  surveyed. 
When  sated  with  the  martial  show 
That  peopled  all  the  plain  below, 
The  wandering  eye  could  o'er  it  go. 
And  mark  the  distant  city  glow 

With  gloomy  splendor  red  ; 
For  on  the  smoke-wreaths,  huge  and  slow, 
That  round  her  sable  turrets  flow, 

The  morning  beams  were  shed. 
And  tinged  them  with  a  lustre  proud. 
Like  that  which  streaks  a  thunder-cloud. 
Such  dusky  grandeur  clothed  the  height 
Where  the  huge  castle  holds  its  state, 

And  all  the  steep  slope  down. 
Whose  ridgy  back  heaves  to  the  sky, 
Piled  deep  and  massy,  close  and  high, 


THE   CAMP. 


195 


Mine  own  romantic  town  ! 
But  northward  far,  with  purer  blaze, 
On  Ochil  mountains  fell  the  rays, 


196  MARMION. 

And  as  each  heathy  top  they  kissed, 
It  gleamed  a  purple  amethyst. 
Yonder  the  shores  of  Fife  you  saw, 
Here  Preston-Bay  and  Berwick-Law  ; 

And,  broad  between  them  rolled, 
The  gallant  Firth  the  eye  might  note, 
Wliose  islands  on  its  bosom  float. 

Like  emeralds  chased  in  gold. 
Fitz-Eustace'  heart  felt  closely  pent ; 
As  if  to  give  his  rapture  vent, 
The  spur  he  to  his  charger  lent, 

And  raised  his  bridle  hand, 
And  making  demi-volt  in  air, 
Cried,  '  Where  's  the  coward  that  would  not  dare 

To  fight  for  such  a  land  ! ' 
The  Lindesay  smiled  his  joy  to  see. 
Nor  Marmion's  frown  repressed  his  glee. 


XXXI. 

Thus  while  they  looked,  a  flourish  proud. 
Where  mingled  trump,  and  clarion  loud, 

And  fife,  and  kettle-drum. 
And  sackbut  deep,  and  psaltery. 
And  war-pipe  with  discordant  cry. 
And  cymbal  clattering  to  tlie  sky. 
Making  wild  music  bold  and  high 

Did  up  the  mountain  come  ; 
The  whilst  the  bells  with  distant  chime 


THE   CAMP.  197 

Mcn-ily  tolled  tho  hour  of  prime, 

And  thus  the  Tiiudesiiy  spoke : 
'Thus  fliunor  still  the  war-notes  when 
The  kiiit>-  to  mass  his  way  has  ta'en. 
Or  to  Saint  Catherine's  of  Sienne, 

Or  Chapel  of  Saint  Rocque. 
To  you  they  speak  of  martial  fame, 
But  me  reuund  of  peaceful  game, 

When  blither  Avas  their  cheer, 
Thrilling  in  Falkland-woods  the  air. 
In  signal  none  liis  steed  should  spare. 
But  strive  Avhieh  foremost  might  repair 

To  the  downfall  of  the  deer. 


XXXI 

'  Nor  less,'  he  said,  '  when  looking  forth 
I  view  yon  Empress  of  the  North 

Sit  on  her  hilly  throne, 
Her  palace's  imperial  bowers, 
Her  castle,  proof  to  hostile  powers, 
Her  stately  halls  and  holy  towers  — 

Nor  less,'  he  said,  '  I  moan 
To  think  what  woe  mischance  may  bring. 
And  how  these  merry  bells  may  ring 
The  death-dirge  of  our  gallant  king. 

Or  with  their  larum  call 
The  burghers  forth  to  watch  and  ward, 
'Gainst  Southern  sac^'  and  fires  to  guard 


Dun-Edin's  leaguered  wall.  — 


198  MARMION. 

But  not  for  my  presaging  thought, 
Dream  conquest  sure  or  cheaply  bought ! 

Lord  Marmion,  I  say  nay  : 
God  is  the  guider  of  the  field, 
He  breaks  the  champion's  spear  and  shield,  • 

But  thou  thyself  shalt  say, 
When  joins  yon  host  in  deadly  stowre, 
That  England's  dames  must  weep  in  bower, 

Her  monks  the  death-mass  sing  ; 
Por  never  saw'st  thou  such  a  power 

Led  on  by  such  a  king.' 
And  now,  down  winding  to  the  plain. 
The  barriers  of  the  camp  they  gain, 

And  there  they  made  a  stay.  — 
There  stays  the  Minstrel,  till  he  fling 
His  hand  o'er  every  Border  string, 
And  fit  his  harp  the  pomp  to  sing 
Of  Scotland's  ancient  court  and  king. 
In  the  succeeding  lay. 


CANTO    FIFTH. 

THE   COURT. 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  PIPTH. 


TO   GEORGE   ELLIS,   ESQ. 

EdinburgJi. 

When  dark  December  glooms  the  day, 

And  takes  our  autumn  joys  away  ; 

When  short  and  scant  the  sunbeam  throws 

Upon  the  weary  waste  of  snows 

A  cold  and  profitless  regard, 

Like  patron  on  a  needy  bard  ; 

When  sylvan  occupation  's  done. 

And  o'er  the  chimney  rests  the  gun, 

And  hang  in  idle  tropliy  near, 

The  game-pouch,  fisliing-rod,  and  spear ; 

When  wiry  terrier,  rough  and  grim. 

And  greyhound,  with  his  length  of  limb. 

And  pointer,  uoav  employed  no  more. 

Cumber  our  parlor's  narrow  floor  ; 


202  MARMION. 

When  in  his  stall  the  impatient  steed 

Is  Ions:  condemned  to  rest  and  feed  ; 

When  from  our  snow-encirded  home 

Scarce  cai-es  the  hardiest  step  to  roam, 

Since  path  is  none,  save  that  to  bring 

The  needful  water  from  the  spring  ; 

When  wrinkled  news-page,  thrice  conned  o'er, 

Begudes  tlie  dreary  hour  no  more, 

And  darkling  politician,  crossed, 

Inveighs  against  the  lingering  post. 

And  answering  housewife  sore  complains 

Of  carriers'  snow-impeded  wains  ;  — 

When  such  the  country-cheer,  I  come 

Well  pleased  to  seek  our  city  home  ; 

Por  converse  and  for  books  to  change 

The  Forest's  melancholy  range. 

And  welcome  with  renewed  delight 

The  busy  day  and  social  night. 

Not  here  need  my  desponding  rhyme 
Lament  the  ravages  of  time, 
As  erst  by  Newark's  riven  towers, 
And  Ettrick  stripped  of  forest  bowers. 
True,  Caledonia's  Queen  is  changed 
Since  on  her  dusky  summit  ranged, 
Within  its  steepy  limits  pent 
By  bulwark,  line,  and  battlement. 
And  flanking  towers,  and  laky  flood, 
Guarded  and  garrisoned  she  stood, 
Denying  entrance  or  resort 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  FIFTH.      203 

Save  at  each  tall  embattled  port, 
Above  whose  aroh,  suspcMuled,  hung 
Portcullis  spiked  witli  iron  prong. 
That  long  is  gone,  —  but  not  so  long 
Since,  early  closed  and  opening  late, 
Jealous  revolved  the  studded  gate, 
Whose  task,  from  eve  to  morning  tide, 
A  wicket  churlishly  supplied. 
Stern  then  and  steel-girt  was  thy  brow, 
Dun-Edin  !     Oh,  how  altered  now. 
When  safe  amid  thy  mountain  court 
Thou  sitt'st,  like  empress  at  her  sport. 
And  liberal,  unconfined,  and  free, 
Plinging  tliy  white  arms  to  the  sea. 
For  thy  dark  cloud,  with  umbered  lower, 
That  hung  o'er  cliff  and  lake  and  tower, 
Thou  gleam'st  against  the  western  ray 
Ten  thousand  lines  of  brighter  day  ! 

Not  she,  the  championess  of  old. 
In  Spenser's  magic  tale  enrolled. 
She  for  the  charmed  spear  renowned, 
Which  forced  each  knight  to  kiss  the  ground,  — 
Not  she  more  changed,  when,  placed  at  rest, 
What  time  she  was  Malbecco's  guest. 
She  gave  to  flow  her  maiden  vest ; 
When,  from  the  corselet's  grasp  relieved. 
Free  to  the  sight  her  bosom  heaved  : 
Sweet  was  her  blue  eye's  modest  smile. 
Erst  hidden  by  the  aventayle. 


204  MARMION. 

And  down  lier  shoulders  graceful  rolled 
Her  locks  profuse  of  paly  gold. 
They  who  whilom  in  midnight  fight 
Had  marvelled  at  her  matchless  might, 
No  less  her  maiden  charms  approved, 
But  looking  liked,  and  liking  loved. 
The  sight  coidd  jealous  pangs  beguile, 
And  charm  Malbecco's  cares  awhde ; 
And  lie,  the  wandering  Squire  of  Dames, 
Forgot  his  Columbella's  claims, 
And  passion,  erst  unknown,  could  gain 
The  breast  of  blunt  Sir  Satyrane  ; 
Nor  durst  light  Paridell  advance, 
Bold  as  he  was,  a  looser  glance. 
She  charmed,  at  once,  and  tamed  the  heart, 
Incomparable  Britomart ! 


So  thou,  fair  City  !   disarrayed 
Of  battled  wall  and  rampart's  aid. 
As  stately  seem'st,  but  lovelier  far 
Than  in  that  panoply  of  war. 
Nor  deem  that  from  thy  fenceless  throne 
Strength  and  security  are  flown  ; 
Still  as  of  yore.  Queen  of  the  North  ! 
Still  canst  thou  send  thy  children  forth. 
Ne'er  readier  at  alarm -bell's  call 
Thy  burgher's  rose  to  man  thy  wall 
Than  now,  in  danger,  shall  be  thine, 
Thy  dauntless  voluntary  line ; 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  FIFTH.        205 

Por  fosse  and  turret  proud  to  stand, 
Tlu'ir  breasts  tlu;  bulwarks  of  tlic  land. 
Thy  thousands,  trained  to  martial  toil, 
Full  red  would  stain  their  native  soil, 
Ere  from  thy  mural  crown  there  fell 
The  slightest  knosp  or  pinnacle. 
And  if  it  come,  as  come  it  may, 
Dun-Edin  !  that  eventful  day, 
Eenowned  for  liospitable  deed. 
That  virtue  much  with  Heaven  may  plead, 
In  patriarchal  times  whose  care 
Descending  angels  deigned  to  share; 
That  claim  may  wrestle  blessings  down 
On  those  who  tight  for  the  Good  Town, 
Destined  in  every  age  to  be 
Kefuge  of  injured  royalty; 
Since  first,  when  conquering  York  arose. 
To  Henry  meek  she  gave  repose. 
Till  late,  with  wonder,  grief,  and  awe, 
Great  Bourbon's  relics  sad  she  saw. 


Truce  to  these  thoughts !  —  for,  as  they  rise, 
How  gladly  I  avert  mine  eyes, 
Bodings,  or  true  or  false,  to  change 
For  Fiction's  fair  romantic  range, 
Or  for  Tradition's  dubious  light, 
That  hovers  'twixt  the  day  and  night : 
Dazzling  alternately  and  dim, 
Her  wavering  lamp  I  'd  rather  trim. 


206  MARMION. 

Knights,  squires,  and  lovely  dames  to  see. 
Creation  of  my  fantasy, 
Than  gaze  abroad  on  reeky  fen, 
And  make  of  mists  invading  men. 
Who  loves  not  more  the  night  of  June 
Than  dull  December's  gloomy  noon? 
The  moonlight  than  the  fog  of  frost? 
And  can  we  say  which  cheats  the  most  ? 


But  who  shall  teach  my  harp  to  gain 
A  sound  of  the  romantic  strain 
Whose  Anglo-Norman  tones  whilere 
Could  win  the  royal  Henry's  ear, 
Famed  Beauclerk  called,  for  that  he  loved 
The  minstrel  and  his  lay  approved  ? 
Who  shall  these  lingering  notes  redeem, 
Decaying  on  Oblivion's  stream  ; 
Such  notes  as  from  the  Breton  tongue 
Marie  translated,  Blondel  sung?  — 
Oh  !  born  Time's  ravage  to  repair, 
And  make  the  dying  Muse  thy  care ; 
Who,  when  his  scythe  her  hoary  foe 
Was  poising  for  the  final  blow. 
The  weapon  from  his  hand  could  wring, 
And  break  his  glass  and  shear  his  wing, 
And  bid,  reviving  in  his  strain, 
The  gentle  poet  live  again; 
Thou,  who  canst  give  to  lightest  lay 
An  unpedantic  moral  gay, 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  FIFTH.       207 

Nor  less  the  dullest  theme  bid  flit 
Ou  wings  of  unexpected  wit ; 
In  letters  us  in  life  approved, 
Example  honored  and  beloved,  — 
Dear  Ellis  !  to  the  bard  impart 
A  lesson  of  thy  magic  art. 
To  win  at  once  the  head  and  heart,  — 
At  once  to  charm,  instruct,  and  mend, 
My  guide,  my  pattern,  and  my  friend  ! 

Such  minstrel  lesson  to  bestow 
Be  long  thy  pleasing  task,  —  but,  oh  ! 
No  more  by  thy  example  teach 
"What  few  can  practise,  all  can  preach,  — 
With  even  patience  to  endure 
Lingering  disease  and  painful  cure. 
And  boast  affliction's  pangs  subdued 
By  mild  and  manly  fortitude. 
Enough,  the  lesson  has  been  given  : 
Forbid  the  repetition.  Heaven  ! 

Come  listen,  then  !  for  thou  hast  known 
And  loved  the  Minstrel's  varying  tone, 
•  Who,  like  his  Border  sires  of  old. 
Waked  a  wild  measure  rude  and  bold, 
Till  Windsor's  oaks  and  Ascot  plain 
With  wonder  heard  the  Northern  strain. 
Come  listen  !  bold  in  thy  applause. 
The  bard  shall  scorn  pedantic  laws  ; 
And,  as  the  ancient  art  could  stain 


208  MARMION. 

Achievements  on  the  storied  pane. 
Irregularly  traced  and  planned, 
Eut  yet  so  glowing  and  so  grand, 
So  shall  he  strive,  in  changeful  hue, 
Field,  feast,  and  combat  to  renew, 
And  loves,  and  arms,  and  harpers'  glee, 
And  all  the  pomp  of  chivalry. 


CANTO  FIFTH. 

THE  COURT. 

I. 

The  train  has  left  the  hills  of  Braid  ; 
The  barrier  guard  have  open  made  — 
So  Lindesay  bade  —  the  palisade 

That  closed  the  tented  ground  ; 
Their  men  the  warders  backward  drew, 
And  carried  pikes  as  they  rode  through 

Into  its  ample  bound. 
Fast  ran  the  Scottish  warriors  there, 
Upon  the  Southern  band  to  stare, 
And  envy  with  their  wonder  rose, 
To  see  such  well-appointed  foes  ;. 
Such  length  of  shafts,  such  mighty  bows, 
So  huge  that  many  simply  thought 
But  for  a  vaunt  sucli  weapons  wrought. 
And  little  deemed  their  force  to  feel 
Through  links  of  mail  and  plates  of  steel 
When,  rattling  upon  Flodden  vale, 
The  cloth-yard  arrows  flew  like  hail. 


310  3f ARM  ION. 

II. 

Nor  less  did  Mannion's  skilful  view 
Glance  every  line  and  squadron  throug'h, 
And  much  he  marvelled  one  small  land 
Could  marshal  forth  such  various  band  ; 

For  men-at-arms  were  here. 
Heavily  sheathed  in  mail  and  plate, 
Like  iron  towers  for  strength  and  weight, 
On  Flemish  steeds  of  bone  and  height, 

With  battle-axe  aud  spear. 
Young  knights  and  squires,  a  lighter  train, 
Practised  their  chargers  on  the  plain, 
By  aid  of  leg,  of  hand,  and  rein, 

Each  warlike  feat  to  show. 
To  pass,  to  wheel,  the  croupe  to  gain, 
And  high  curvet,  that  not  in  vain 
The  sword-sway  might  descend  amain 

On  foeman's  casque  below. 
He  saw  the  hardy  burghers  there 
March  armed  on  foot  with  faces  bare, 

For  visor  they  wore  none. 
Nor  waving  plume,  nor  crest  of  knight ; 
But  burnished  were  their  corselets  bright, 
Their  brigantines  and  gorgets  light 

Like  very  silver  shone. 
Long  pikes  they  had  for  standing  fight, 

Two-handed  swords  they  wore, 
And  many  wielded  mace  of  Aveight, 

And  bucklers  bright  they  bore. 


THE  COURT.  211 


Til. 

On  foot  the  yeoman  too,  but  dressed 
In  his  steel-jack,  a  swarthy  vest, 

With  iron  quilted  well ; 
Each  at  his  back  —  a  slender  store  — 
His  forty  days'  provision  bore, 

As  feudal  statutes  tell. 
His  arms  were  halbert,  axe,  or  spear, 
A  crossbow  there,  a  hagbut  here, 

A  dagger-knife,  and  brand. 
Sober  he  seemed  and  sad  of  cheer, 
As  loath  to  leave  his  cottage  dear 

And  march  to  foreign  strand, 
Or  musing  who  would  guide  his  steer 

To  till  the  fallow  land. 
Yet  deem  not  in  his  thoughtful  eye 
Did  aught  of  dastard  terror  lie  ; 

More  dreadful  far  his  ire 
Than  theirs  who,  scorning  danger's  name, 
In  ea<>-er  mood  to  battle  came. 
Their  valor  like  light  straw  on  flame, 

A  fierce  but  fading  fire. 


IV. 

Not  so  the  Borderer  :  —  bred  to  war, 
He  knew  the  battle's  din  afar. 
And  joyed  to  hear  it  swell. 
His  peaceful  day  was  slothful  ease ; 


212  HARM  ION. 

Nor  harp  nor  pipe  his  ear  could  please 

Like  tlie  loud  slogan  yell. 
On  active  steed,  with  lance  and  blade, 
The  light-armed  pricker  plied  his  trade,  — 

Let  nobles  fight  for  fame ; 
Let  vassals  follow  where  they  lead, 
Burghers,  to  guard  their  townships,  bleed, 

But  war  's  the  Borderers'  game. 
Their  gain,  their  glory,  their  delight, 
To  sleep  the  day,  maraud  the  night, 

O'er  mountain,  moss,  and  moor ; 
Joyful  to  fight  they  took  their  way, 
Scarce  caring  who  might  win  the  day, 

Their  booty  was  secure. 
These,  as  Lord  Marraion's  train  passed  by. 
Looked  on  at  first  with  careless  eye. 
Nor  marvelled  aught,  well  taught  to  know 
The  form  and  force  of  English  bow. 
But  when  they  saw  the  lord  arrayed 
In  splendid  arms  and  rich  brocade, 
Each  Borderer  to  his  kinsman  said,  — 

'  Hist,  Ringan !   seest  thou  there  ! 
Canst  guess  which  road  they  '11  homeward  ride  ? 
Oh !  could  we  but  on  Border  side. 
By  Eusedale  glen,  or  Liddell's  tide, 

Beset  a  prize  so  fair ! 
That  fangless  Lion,  too,  their  guide. 
Might  chance  to  lose  his  glistering  hide ; 
Brown  Maudlin  of  that  doublet  pied 

Could  make  a  kirtle  rare.' 


rilE   COURT. 


213 


Next,  Miirmioii  marked  tlio  Celtic  race, 
Of  (litt'erent  language,  form,  and  face. 


>^ 


A  various  race  of  man  ; 
Just  then  the  chiefs  their  tribes  arrayed, 


214  MARMION. 

And  wild  and  g-arisli  semblance  made 
The  clieckcred  trews  and  belted  plaid, 
And  varying  notes  the  war-pipes  brayed 

To  every  varying  clan. 
Wild  through  their  red  or  sable  hair 
Looked  out  their  eyes  with  savage  stare 

On  Marmion  as  he  passed ; 
Their  legs  above  the  knee  were  bare; 
Their  frame  was  sinewy,  short,  and  spare, 

And  hardened  to  the  blast ; 
Of  taller  race,  the  chiefs  they  own 
Were  by  the  eagle's  plumage  known. 
The  hunted  red-deer's  undressed  hide 
Their  hairy  buskins  Avell  supplied  ; 
The  graceful  bonnet  decked  their  head ; 
Back  from  their  shoulders  hung  the  plaid ; 
A  broadsword  of  unwieldy  length, 
A  dagger  proved  for  edge  and  strength, 

A  studded  targe  they  wore. 
And  quivers,  bows,  and  shafts,  — but,  oh  ! 
Short  was  the  shaft  and  weak  the  boAV 

To  that  which  England  bore. 
The  Isles-raen  carried  at  their  backs 
The  ancient  Danish  battle-axe. 
They  raised  a  wild  and  wondering  cry, 
As  with  his  guide  rode  Marmion  by. 
Loud  were  their  clamoring  tongues,  as  when 
~    The  clanging  sea-fowl  leave  the  fen, 
And,  with  their  cries  discordant  mixed, 
Grumbled  and  yelled  the  pipes  betwixt. 


THE  COURT.  215 


VI. 

Thus  through  the  Scottish  camp  they  passed, 

And  reached  the  city  gate  at  last. 

Where  all  around,  a  wakeful  guard, 

Armed  ])urglicrs  kept  their  watch  and  ward. 

Well  had  they  cause  of  jealous  fear, 

When  lay  encamped  in  field  so  near 

The  Borderer  and  the  Mountaineer. 

As  through  the  bustling  streets  they  go. 

All  was  alive  with  martial  show ; 

At  every  turn  with  dinning  clang 

The  armorer's  anvil  clashed  and  rang, 

Or  toiled  the  swarthv  smith  to  wheel 

The  bar  that  arras  the  charger's  heel. 

Or  axe  or  falchion  to  the  side 

Of  jarring  grindstone  was  applied. 

Page,  groom,  and  squire,  with  hurrying  pace. 

Through  street  and  lane  and  market-place. 

Bore  lance  or  casque  or  sword ; 
While  biu'ghers,  with  important  face. 

Described  each  new-come  lord. 
Discussed  his  lineage,  told  his  name, 
His  following,  and  his  warlike  fame. 
The  Lion  led  to  lodging  meet. 
Which  high  o'erlooked  the  crowded  street ; 

There  must  the  baron  rest 
Till  past  the  hour  of  vesper  tide, 
And  then  to  Holy-Rood  must  ride,  — 

Such  was  the  king's  behest. 


216  MARMION. 

Meanwhile  the  Lion's  care  assigns 
A  banquet  rich  and  costly  wines 

To  Marmion  and  his  train ; 
And  when  the  appointed  hour  succeeds, 
The  baron  dons  his  peaceful  weeds, 
And  following  Lindesay  as  he  leads, 

The  palace  halls  they  gain. 


VII. 

Old  Holy-Rood  rung  merrily 
That  night  with  wassail,  mirth,  and  glee : 
King  James  within  her  princely  bower 
Feasted  the  chiefs  of  Scotland's  power, 
Summoned  to  spend  the  parting  hour ; 
For  he  had  charged  that  his  array 
Should  southward  march  by  break  of  day. 
Well  loved  that  splendid  monarch  aye 

The  banquet  and  the  song, 
By  day  the  tourney,  and  by  night 
The  merry  dance,  traced  fast  and  light, 
The  maskers  quaint,  the  pageant  bright, 

The  revel  loud  and  long. 
This  feast  outshone  his  banquets  past; 
It  was  his  blithest  —  and  his  last. 
The  dazzling  lamps  from  gallery  gay 
Cast  on  the  court  a  dancing  ray ; 
Here  to  the  harp  did  minstrels  sing, 
There  ladies  touched  a  softer  string ; 
With  long-eared  cap  and  motley  vest, 


THE   COURT.  217 

TIic  licensed  fool  vctuiled  his  jest ; 
His  magie  trieks  the  jug-i-lcr  plied  ; 
At  dice  and  draughts  the  gallants  vied  ; 
While  some,  in  close  recess  apart, 
Courted  the  ladies  of  their  heart, 

Nor  courted  thein  in  vain ; 
For  often  in  the  parting  hour 
Victorious  Love  asserts  his  power 

O'er  coldness  and  disdain  ; 
And  flinty  is  her  heart  can  view 
To  battle  march  a  lover  true  — 
Can  hear,  perchance,  his  last  adieu, 

Nor  own  her  share  of  pain. 

VIII. 

Through  this  mixed  crowd  of  glee  and  game 
The  king  to  greet  Lord  Marmion  came, 

While,  reverent,  all  made  room. 
An  easy  task  it  was,  I  trow. 
King  James's  manly  form  to  know. 
Although,  his  courtesy  to  show. 
He  doited  to  Marmion  bending  low 

His  broidered  cap  and  plume. 
For  royal  were  his  garb  and  mien ; 

His  cloak  of  crimson  velvet  piled. 

Trimmed  with  the  fur  of  marten  wild, 
His  vest  of  changeful  satin  sheen. 

The  dazzled  eye  beguiled ; 
His  gorgeous  collar  hung  adown, 


218  MARMION. 

Wrought  with  the  badg-e  of  Scotland's  crown, 

The  thistle  brave  of  old  renown  ; 

His  trusty  blade,  Toledo  right, 

Descended  from  a  baldric  bright ; 

White  were  his  buskins,  on  the  heel 

His  spurs  inlaid  of  gold  and  steel ; 

His  bonnet,  all  of  crimson  fair. 

Was  buttoned  with  a  I'uby  rare : 

And  Marmion  deemed  he  ne'er  had  seen 

A  prince  of  such  a  noble  mien. 


IX. 

The  monarch's  form  was  middle  size. 
For  feat  of  strength  or  exercise 

Shaped  in  proportion  fair; 
And  hazel  was  his  eagle  eye. 
And  auburn  of  the  darkest  dye 

His  short  ciuded  beard  and  hair. 
Light  was  his  footstep  in  the  dance, 

And  firm  his  stirrup  in  the  lists  ; 
And,  oh !  he  had  that  merry  glance 

That  seldom  lady's  heart  resists. 
Lightly  from  fair  to  fair  he  flew. 
And  loved  to  plead,  lament,  and  sue,  — 
Suit  lightly  won  and  short-lived  pain, 
For  monarchs  seldom  sigh  in  vain. 

I  said  he  joyed  in  banquet  bower ; 
But,  mid  his  mirth,  't  was  often  strange 
How  suddeidy  his  cheer  would  change. 


THE  COURT.  219 

His  look  o'ercast  and  lower, 
If  in  a  sudden  turn  he  felt 
The  pressure  of  his  iron  belt. 
That  bound  his  breast  in  penance  pain, 
In  memory  of  his  father  slain. 
Even  so  't  was  strange  how  evermore, 
Soon  as  the  passing-  pang  was  o'er, 
Forward  he  rushed  with  double  glee 
Into  the  stream  of  revelry. 
Thus  dim-seen  object  of  affright 
Startles  the  courser  in  his  flight, 
And  half  he  halts,  half  springs  aside, 
But  feels  the  quickening  spur  applied. 
And,  straining  on  the  tightened  rein. 
Scours  doubly  swift  o'er  hill  and  plain. 


O'er  James's  heart,  the  courtiers  say. 
Sir  Hugh  the  Heron's  wife  held  sway ; 

To  Scotland's  court  she  came 
To  be  a  hostage  for  her  lord. 
Who  Cessford's  gallant  heart  had  gored, 
And  with  the  king  to  make  accord 

Had  sent  his  lovely  dame. 
Nor  to  that  lady  free  alone 
Did  the  gay  king  allegiance  own  ; 

For  the  fair  Queen  of  France 
Sent  him  a  turquoise  ring  and  glove. 
And  charged  hira,  as  her  knight  and  love. 


220  MARMION. 

For  her  to  brealc  a  lance, 
And  strike  three  strokes  with  Scottish  brand, 
And  marcli  three  miles  on  Southron  land, 
And  bid  the  banners  of  his  band 

In  English  breezes  dance. 
And  thus  for  France's  queen  he  drcst 
His  inanly  limbs  in  mailed  vest. 
And  thus  admitted  English  fair 
His  inmost  councils  still  to  share, 
And  thus  for  both  he  madly  planned 
The  ruin  of  himself  and  laud  ! 

And  yet,  the  sooth  to  tell. 
Nor  England's  fair  nor  France's  queen 
Were  worth  one  pearl-drop,  bright  and  sheen, 

Fro)n  Margaret's  eyes  that  fell,  — 
His  own  Queen  Margaret,  who  in  Lithgow's  bower 
All  lonely  sat  and  wept  the  weary  hour. 


XI. 

The  queen  sits  lone  in  Lithgow  pile. 

And  weeps  the  weary  day 
The  war  against  her  native  soil, 
Her  monarch's  risk  in  battle  broil,  — 
And  in  gay  Holy-Rood  the  while 
Dame  Heron  rises  with  a  smile 

Upon  the  harp  to  phay. 
Fair  was  her  rounded  arm,  as  o'er 

The  strings  her  fingers  fUnv; 
And  as  she  touched  and  tuned  them  all, 


THE   COURT.  221 

Ever  \wx  bosom's  rise  and  fall 
Was  plainer  g;iveii  to  view  ; 
Por,  all  for  heat,  was  laid  aside 
Her  wimple,  and  her  hood  untied. 
And  first  she  pitched  her  voiee  to  sing, 
Then  glanced  her  dark  eye  on  the  king, 
And  then  around  the  silent  ring, 
And  laughed,  and  blushed,  and  oft  did  say 
Her  pretty  oath,  by  yea  and  nay. 
She  could  not,  would  not,  durst  not  play  ! 
At  length,  upon  the  harp,  with  glee, 
Mingled  witli  arch  simplicity, 
A  soft  yet  lively  air  she  rung. 
While  thus  the  wily  lady  sung  :  — 


XII. 
LOCniNVAR. 

ILatiji  llrron's  Song. 

Oh  !  young  Lochinvar  is  come  out  of  the  Avest, 
Through  all  the  wide  Border  his  steed  was  the  best ; 
And  save  his  good  broadsword  he  weapons  had  none, 
He  rode  all  unarmed  and  he  rode  all  alone. 
So  faithful  in  love  and  so  dauntless  in  war, 
There  never  was  knight  like  the  young  Lochinvar. 

He  stayed  not  for  brake  and  he  stopped  not  for  stone, 
He  SAvara  the  Eske  river  where  ford  there  was  none ; 


233  M  ARM  I  ON. 

But  ere  he  alighted  at  Netherby  gate 
The  bride  had  consented,  the  gallant  came  late  : 
Por  a  laggard  in  love  and  a  dastard  in  war 
Was  to  wed  the  fair  Ellen  of  brave  Lochinvar. 

So  boldly  he  entered  the  Netherby  Hall, 

Among  bridesmen,  and  kinsmen,  and  brothers,  and  all : 

Then  spoke  the  bride's  father,  his  hand  on  his  sword,  — 

For  the  poor  craven  bridegroom  said  never  a  word,  — 

'  Oh  !  come  ye  in  peace  here,  or  come  ye  in  war, 

Or  to  dance  at  our  bridal,  young  Lord  Lochinvar  ?  '  — 

'  I  long  wooed  your  daughter,  my  suit  you  denied ; 
Love  swells  like  the  Solway,  but  ebbs  like  its  tide  — 
And  now  am  I  come,  with  this  lost  love  of  mine, 
To  lead  but  one  measure,  drink  one  cup  of  wine. 
There  are  maidens  in  Scotland  more  lovely  by  far. 
That  would  gladly  be  bride  to  the  young  Lochinvar.' 

The  bride  kissed  the  goblet;  the  knight  took  it  up, 
He  quaffed  off  the  wine,  and  he  threw  down  the  cup. 
She  looked  down  to  blush,  and  she  looked  up  to  sigh, 
With  a  smile  on  her  lips  and  a  tear  in  her  eye. 
He  took  her  soft  hand  ere  her  mother  could  bar,  — 
'  Now  tread  we  a  measure  !  '  said  young  Lochinvar. 

So  stately  his  form,  and  so  lovely  her  face. 

That  never  a  hall  such  a  galliard  did  grace ; 

While  her  mother  did  fret,  and  her  father  did  fume, 

And  the  bridegroom  stood  dangling  his  bonnet  and  plume ; 


224^  MARMION. 

And  the  briile-maideiis  whispered,  '  'T  were  better  by  far 
To  have  matched  our  fair  cousin  with  young  Lochinvar.' 

One  touch  to  her  hand  and  one  word  in  her  ear, 
When  they  reached  thehall-door,  and  the  charger  stood  near; 
So  light  to  the  croupe  the  fair  hidy  he  swung. 
So  light  to  the  saddle  before  her  he  sprung ! 
'  She  is  won  !  we  are  gone,  over  bank,  bush,  and  scaur ; 
They'll    have    fleet    steeds    that    follow,'    quoth    young 
Locliinvar. 

There  was  mounting  'mong  Graemes  of  the  Netherby  clan  ; 

Forsters,  Fenwicks,  and  Musgraves,  they  rode  and  they  ran : 

There  was  racing  and  chasing  on  Cannobie  Lee, 

But  the  lost  bride  of  Netherby  ne'er  did  they  see. 

So  daring  in  love  and  so  dauntless  in  war. 

Have  ye  e'er  heard  of  gallant  like  young  Lochinvar  ? 

XIII. 

The  monarch  o'er  the  siren  hung. 
And  beat  the  measure  as  she  sung ; 
And,  pressing  closer  and  more  near. 
He  whispered  praises  in  her  ear. 
In  loud  applause  the  courtiers  vied, 
And  ladies  winked  and  spoke  aside. 

The  witching  dame  to  Marmion  threw       , 
A  glance,  where  seemed  to  reign  ',; 

The  pride  that  claims  applauses  due,         ^ 

And  of  her  royal  conquest  too 
A  real  or  feigned  disdain : 


THE   COURT.  225 

Familiar  was  the  look,  and  told 
Mannioi>  and  she  were  friends  of  old. 
The  king-  observed  their  meeting  eyes 
With  something  like  displeased  surprise  ; 
For  monarehs  ill  can  rivals  brook, 
Even  in  a  word,  or  smile,  or  look. 
Straight  took  he  forth  the  parchment  broad 
Which  Marniioii's  high  commission  showed : 
'  Our  Borders  sacked  by  many  a  raid. 
Our  peaceful  liege-men  robbed,'  he  said, 
'  On  day  of  truce  our  warden  slain, 
Stout  Barton  killed,  his  vessels  ta'en  —^ 
Unworthy  were  we  here  to  reign, 
Should  these  for  vengeance  cry  in  vain ; 
Our  full  defiance,  hate,  and  scorn, 
Our  herald  has  to  Henry  borne.' 


XIV. 

He  paused,  and  led  where  Douglas  stood 
And  with  stern  eye  the  pageant  viewed  ; 
I  mean  that  Douglas,  sixth  of  yore, 
Who  coronet  of  Angus  bore, 
And,  when  his  blood  and  heart  were  high. 
Did  the  third  James  in  camp  defy. 
And  all  his  minions  led  to  die 

On  Lauder's  dreary  flat. 
Princes  and  favorites  long  grew  tame, 
And  trembled  at  the  homely  name 

Of  Archibald  Bell-the-Cat ; 


226  MARMION. 

The  same  who  left  the  dusky  vale 
Of  Ileruiitage  in  Licldisdalc, 

Its  dungeons  and  its  towers, 
Where  Bothwell's  turrets  brave  the  air, 
And  Bothwell  bank  is  blooming  fair, 

To  fix  lus  princely  bowers. 
Though  now  in  age  he  had  laid  down 
His  armor  for  the  peaceful  gown, 

And  for  a  staff  his  brand. 
Yet  often  would  flash  forth  the  fire 
That  could  in  youth  a  monarch's  ire 

And  minion's  pride  withstand  ; 
And  even  that  day  at  council  board. 

Unapt  to  soothe  his  sovereign's  mood, 

Against  the  war  had  Angus  stood, 
And  chafed  his  royal  lord. 


XV. 

His  giant-form,  like  ruined  tower. 
Though  fallen  its  muscles'  brawny  vaunt, 
Huge-boned,  and  tall,  and  grim,  and  gaunt, 

Seemed  o'er  the  gaudy  scene  to  lower ; 
His  locks  and  beard  in  silver  grew. 
His  eyebrows  kept  their  sable  hue. 
Near  Douglas  Avlien  the  monarch  stood, 
His  bitter  speech  he  thus  pursued  : 
'Lord  Marmion,  since  these  letters  say 
That  in  the  North  you  needs  must  stay 

WhUe  slightest  hopes  of  peace  remain, 


THE  COURT.  227 

Uncoiirtc'ous  speech  it  were  and  stern 
To  say  —  licturii  to  Liiulisfarne, 

Until  my  herald  come  again. 
Then  rest  you  in  Tantallon  hold; 
Your  host  shall  be  the  Douglas  bold,  — 
A  chief  unlike  his  sires  of  old. 
He  wears  their  motto  on  his  blade, 
Their  blazon  o'er  his  towers  displayed, 
Yet  loves  his  sovereign  to  oppose 
More  than  to  face  his  country's  foes. 

And,  I  bethink  me,  by  Saint  Stephen, 

But  e'en  this  morn  to  me  was  given 
A  prize,  the  first  fruits  of  the  war, 
Ta'en  by  a  galley  from  Dunbar, 

A  bevy  of  the  maids  of  h(!aven. 
Under  your  guard  these  holy  maids 
Shall  safe  return  to  cloister  shades, 
And,  while  they  at  Tantallon  stay, 
Kequiem  for  Cochran's  soul  may  say.' 
And  with  the  slaughtered  favorite's  name 
Across  the  monarch's  brow  there  came 
A  cloud  of  ire,  remorse,  and  shame. 


XVI. 

In  answer  nought  could  Angus  speak, 

His  proud  heart  swelled  well-nigh  to  break ; 

He  turned  aside,  and  down  his  cheek 

A  burning  tear  there  stole. 
His  hand  the  monarch  sudden  took, 


228  MARMION. 

That  sight  his  kind  lieart  could  not  brook : 

'  Now,  by  the  Bruec's  soul, 
Angus,  my  hasty  speech  forgive  ! 
For  sure  as  doth  his  spirit  live, 
As  he  said  of  the  Douglas  old, 

I  well  may  say  of  you,  — 
That  never  king  did  subject  hold, 
In  speech  more  free,  in  war  more  bold. 

More  tender  and  more  trne  ; 
Forgive  me,  Douglas,  once  again.' — 
And,  while  the  king  his  hand  did  strain,    . 
The  old  man's  tears  fell  down  like  rain. 
To  seize  the  moment  Marmion  tried, 
And  whispered  to  tlie  king  aside  : 
'  Oh  !  let  such  tears  unwonted  plead 
For  respite  short  from  dubious  deed ! 
A  child  will  Aveep  a  bramble's  smart, 
A  "maid  to  see  her  sparrow  part, 
A  stripling  for  a  woman's  heart ; 
But  woe  awaits  a  country  when 
She  sees  the  tears  of  bearded  men.     ■ 
Then,  oh  !  what  omen,  dark  and  high, 
When  Douglas  wets  his  manly  eye  ! ' 

XVII. 

Displeased  was  .lames  that  stranger  viewed 
And  tampered  with  his  changing  mood. 
'  Laugh  those  that  can,  weep  those  that  may,' 
Thus  did  the  fiery  monarch  say, 


THE   COURT. 


229 


'  Soulliw.'U'd  T  inardi  l)y  break  of  day  ; 
And  if  within  Taiitalloii  stroiia,' 
The  o-ood  Lord  Mariniou  tarries  loiij^, 
Percliaiicc  our  nieetiui)-  next  may  fall 


At  Taniwortli  in  his  castle-hali.'  — 
The  hanghty  Marmiou  felt  the  taunt, 
And  ansAvered  grave  the  royal  vaunt : 
'Much  honored  Avere  my  humble  home, 


230  MARMION. 

If  in  its  halls  King  James  should  come ; 

But  Nottingham  has  archers  good, 

And  Yorkshire  men  are  stern  of  mood, 

Northumbrian  prickers  wild  and  rude 

On  Derby  Hills  the  paths  arc  steep. 

In  Ouse  and  Tyne  the  fords  are  deep ; 

And  many  a  banner  will  be  torn. 

And  many  a  knight  to  earth  Ije  borne, 

And  many  a  sheaf  of  arrows  spent, 

Ere  Scotland's  king  shall  cross  the  Trent  : 

Yet  pause,  brave  prince,  Avhile  yet  you  may  ! 

The  monarch  lightly  turned  away. 

And  to  his  nobles  loud  did  call, 

'  Lords,  to  the  dance,  —  a  hall !  a  hall ! ' 

Himself  liis  cloak  and  sword  flung  by, 

And  led  Dame  Hei-on  gallantly  ; 

And  minstrels,  at  the  royal  order, 

Etmg  out  '  Blue  Bonnets  o'er  tlie  Border.' 


XVIII. 

Leave  Ave  these  revels  now  to  tell 
What  to  Saint  Hilda's  maids  befell, 
Whose  galley,  as  they  sailed  again 
To  Whitby,  by  a  Scot  Avas  ta'en. 
Now  at  Dun-Edin  did  they  bide 
Till  James  should  of  their  fate  decide. 

And  soon  by  his  command 
Were  gently  summoned  to  prepare 
To  journey  under  Marmion's  care, 


THE   COURT.  231 

As  escort  honored,  safe,  and  fair, 

Again  to  Eiiglisli  land. 
The  abbess  told  lur  eliaplet  o'er, 
Nor  knew  which  Saint  she  shonld  implore; 
For,  when  she  thought  of  Constance,  sore 

Slui  feared  Lord  Marniion's  mood. 
And  jndge  what  Clara  must  have  felt! 
The  sword  that  luing  in  Marniion's  belt 

Had  drunk  De  Wilton's  blood. 
Unwittingly  King  James  had  given, 

As  guard  to  AVhitbv's  shades, 
The  man  most  dreaded  under  heaven 

By  these  defenceless  maids  ; 
Yet  what  petition  could  avail. 
Or  who  woidd  listen  to'  the  tale 
Of  woman,  prisoner,  and  nun, 
Mid  bustle  of  a  war  begun  ? 
They  deemed  it  hopeless  to  avoid 
The  convoy  of  their  dangerous  guide. 


XIX. 

Their  lodging,  so  the  king  assigned. 
To  Marniion's,  as  their  guardian,  joined  ; 
And  thus  it  fell  that,  passing  nigh, 
The  Palmer  caught  the  abbess'  eye, 

Who  warned  him  by  a  scroll 
She  had  a  secret  to  reveal 


232  MARMION. 

That  much  concerned  the  Church's  weal 

And  health  of  sinner's  soul ; 
And,  with  deep  charge  of  secrecy, 

Slie  named  a  place  to  meet 
Within  an  open  balcony, 
That  hung  from  dizzy  pitch  and  high 

Above  the  stately  street. 
To  wliich,  as  common  to  each  home. 
At  night  they  might  in  secret  come. 

XX. 

At  night  in  secret  there  they  came, 
The  Palmer  and  the  holy  dame. 
The  moon  among  the  clouds  rode  high, 
And  all  the  city  hum  was  by. 
Upon  the  street,  wliere  late  befoi*e 
Did  din  of  war  and  warriors  roar. 

You  might  have  heard  a  pcbljle  fall, 
A  beetle  hum,  a  cricket  sing. 
An  owlet  flap  his  Ijoding  wing 

On  Giles's  steeple  tall. 
The  antique  buildings,  climbing  high, 
Whose  Gothic  frontlets  sought  the  sky. 

Were  here  wi-apt  deep  in  shade ; 
There  on  their  brows  the  moonbeam  broke. 
Through  the  faint  wreaths  of  silvery  smoke, 

And  on  the  casements  played. 
And  other  light  was  none  to  see, 

Save  torches  gliding  far, 


THE  COURT. 


233 


Before  some  chieftain  of  dcsree 
Who  left  the  royal  revelry 

To  bowne  hira  for  the  war. — 
A  solemn  seene  tlie  abbess  chose, 
A  solemn  hour,  her  secret  to  disclose. 


234  MARMION. 


XXI. 


'  O  holy  Palmer  ! '  she  hegan,  — 
Tor  sure  he  must  he  sainted  man, 
Whose  hlessed  feet  have  trod  the  ground 
Where  the  Eedeemer's  toud)  is  found,  — 
Por  his  dear  Church's  sake,  my  tale 
Attend,  nor  deem  of  light  avail, 
Though  I  must  speak  of  worldly  love,  — 
How  vain  to  those  who  wed  ahove  !  — 
De  Wilton  and  Lord  Marudon  wooed 
Clara  de  Clare,  of  Gloster's  blood  ;  —   , 
Idle  it  were  of  Whitby's  dame 
To  say  of  that  same  blood  I  came  ;  — 
And  once,  when  jealous  rage  was  high, 
Lord  Marmion  said  despiteously, 
Wilton  was  traitor  in  his  heart. 
And  had  made  league  with  Martin  Swart 
When  he  came  here  on  Simiiel's  part. 
And  only  cowardice  did  restrain 
His  rebel  aid  on  Stokefield's  plain,  — 
And  down  he  threw  his  glove.     The  thing 
Was  tried,  as  wont,  before  the  king  ; 
Where  frankly  did  De  Wilton  own 
That  Swart  in  Guelders  he  had  known, 
And  that  between  them  then  there  went 
Some  scroll  of  courteous  compliment. 
Yox  this  he  to  his  castle  sent ; 
But  when  his  messenger  returned. 


236  MARMION. 

Jiulg'c  how  De  Wilton's  fury  Lunifd ! 
For  in  liis  packet  there  were  luid 
Letters  that  claimed  disloyal  aid 
And  proved  King"  Henry's  cause  betrayed. 
His  fame,  thus  blighted,  iu  the  field 
He  strove  to  clear  by  spear  and  shield  ;  — 
To  clear  his  fame  in  vain  he  strove. 
For  wondrous  are  His  ways  above  ! 
Perchance  some  form  was  unobserved, 
Perchance  in  prayer  or  faith  he  swerved, 
Else  how  coidd  guiltless  champion  quail, 
Or  how  the  blessed  ordeal  fail  ? 

XXII. 

'  His  squire,  who  now  De -Wilton  saw 
As  recreant  doomed  to  suffer  law, 

Repentant,  owned  in  vain 
That  while  he  had  the  scrolls  in  care 
A  stranger  maiden,  passing  fair. 
Had  drenched  him  Avith  a  beverage  rare; 

His  words  no  faith  could  gain. 
With  Clare  alone  he  credence  won. 
Who,  rather  than  wed  Marmion, 
Did  to  Saint  Hilda's  shrine  repair. 
To  give  our  house  her  livings  fair 
And  die  a  vestal  votaress  there. 
The  impulse  from  the  earth  was  given, 
But  bent  her  to  the  paths  of  heaven. 
A  purer  heart,  a  lovelier  maid, 


THE   COURT.  237 

Ne'er  slicltcrcd  Iier  in  Whitby's  shade, 
No,  not  since  Saxoii  lOth'llk'd  ; 
Only  one  trace  of  eartlily  stain, 

That  for  her  lover's  loss 
She  cherishes  a  sorrow  vain. 

And  inurniurs  at  the  cross.  — 
And  then  her  heritai^e  :  —  it  ti,'OCS 

Along  the  banks  of  Tame; 
Peep  fields  of  g-rain  the  reaper  mows, 
In  meadows  rich  the  heifer  lows. 
The  falconer  and  huntsman  knows 

Its  woodlands  for  the  o;ame. 
Shame  were  it  to  Saint  Hilda  dear, 
And  I,  her  humble  votaress  here, 

Should  do  a  deadly  sin, 
Her  temple  spoiled  before  mine  eyes, 
If  this  Mse  Marmion  such  a  prize 

By  my  consent  should  win  ; 
Yet  hath  our  boisterous  monarch  sworn 
That  Clare  shall  from  our  house  be  torn, 
And  grievous  cause  have  I  to  fear 
Such  mandate  doth  Lord  Marmion  bear. 


XXIII. 

*  Now,  prisoner,  helpless,  and  betrayed 
To  evil  power,  I  claim  thine  aid. 

By  every  step  that  tlion  hast  trod 
To  holy  shrine  and  grotto  dim, 
By  every  martyr's  tortured  limb. 


238  MARMION. 

By  angel,  saint,  and  seraphim. 

And  by  the  Church  of  God  ! 
For  mark  :  when  Wilton  was  betrayed, 
And  with  his  squire  forged  letters  laid, 
She  was,  alas  !  that  sinful  maid- 
By  whom  the  deed  was  done,  — 
Oh  !  shame  and  horror  to  be  said  ! 

She  was  —  a  perjured  nun  ! 
No  clerk  in  all  the  laud  like  her 
Traced  quaint  and  varying  character. 
Perchance  you  may  a  marvel  deem, 

Tiiat  Marmion's  paramour  — 
For  such  vile  thing  she  was  —  should  scheme 

Her  lover's  nuptial  hour ; 
But  o'er  him  thus  she  hoped  to  gain, 
As  privy  to  liis  honor's  stain. 

Illimitable  power. 
For  this  she  secretly  retained 

Each  proof  that  might  the  plot  reveal, 

Instructions  with  his  hand  and  seal; 
And  thus  Saint  Hikhi  deigned, 

Tlirough  sinners'  perfidy  impure. 

Her  house's  glory  to  secure 
And  Clare's  immortal  weal. 


XXIV. 

"T  were  long  and  needless  here  to  tell 
How  to  my  hand  these  papers  fell ; 


THE   COURT.  239 

With  me  they  must  not  stay. 
Saint  Hilda  keep  her  abbess  true  ! 
Who  knows  wiiat  outrage  lie  miglit  do 

While  journeying-  by  the  way  ?  — 

0  blessed  Saint,  if"  e'er  again 

1  venturous  leave  thy  calm  domain, 
To  travel  or  by  land  or  main, 

Deep  penance  may  1  pay  !  — 
Now,  saintly  Palmer,  mark  my  prayer: 
I  "give  this  packet  to  thy  care. 
For  thee  to  stop  they  will  not  dare  ; 

And  oh  !  with  cantions  speed 
To  Wolsey's  hand  the  papers  bring, 
That  he  may  show  them  to  the  king  : 

And.  for  tliy  well-earned  meed, 
Thou  holy  man,  at  Whitby's  shrine 
A  weekly  mass  shall  still  be  thine 

While  priests  can  sing  and  read.  — 
What  ail'st  thou  ?  —  Speak  ! '  —  For  as  he  took 
The  charge  a  strong  emotion  shook 

His  frame,  and  ere  reply 
They  heard  a  faint  yet  shrilly  tone, 
Like  distant  clarion  feebly  blown, 

That  on  the  breeze  did  die  ; 
And  loud  the  abbess  shrieked  in  fear, 
'  Saint  Withold,  save  us  !  —  AVIiat  is  here  ! 

Look  at  yon  City  Cross  ! 
See  on  its  battled  tower  appear 
Phantoms,  that  scutcheons  seem  to  rear 

And  blazoned  banners  toss  !  '  — 


240  MARMION. 


XXV. 


Dun-Ed in's  Cross,  a  pillared  stone, 
Rose  oil  a  turret  octagon ;  — 
But  now  is  razed  that  monument, 

Whence  royal  edict  rang, 
And  voice  of  Scotland's  law  was  sent 

In  glorious  trumpet-clang. 
Oh !  be  his  tomb  as  lead  to  lead 
Upon  its  dull  destroyer's  head  !  — 
A  minstrel's  malison  is  said.  — 
Then  on  its  battlements  they  saw 
A  vision,  passing  Nature's  law. 

Strange,  wild,  and  dimly  seen  ; 
Figures  that  seemed  to  rise  and  die. 
Gibber  and  sign,  advance  and  fly. 
While  nought  confirmed  could  ear  or  eye 

Discern  of  sound  or  mien. 
Yet  darkly  did  it  seem  as  there 
Heralds  and  pursuivants  prepare. 
With  trumpet  sound  and  blazon  fair, 

A  summons  to  proclaim  ; 
But  indistinct  the  pageant  proud, 
As  fancy  forms  of  midnight  cloud 
When  flings  the  moon  upon  her  shroud 

A  wavering  tinge  of  flame  ; 
It  flits,  expands,  and  shifts,  till  loud, 
Prom  midmost  of  the  sp(;ctre  crowd. 

This  awful  summons  came  :  — 


THE   COURT.  241 


XXVI. 

'  Prince,  prelate,  potentate,  and  peer, 

Wliosc  names  I  now  shall  call, 
Scottish  or  forcig-ner,  give  car ! 
Snbjccts  of  him  who  sent  me  here. 
At  his  tribunal  to  appear 

I  summon  one  and  all : 
I  cite  you  by  each  deadly  sin 
That  e'er  hath  soiled  your  hearts  within ; 
I  cite  you  by  each  brutal  lust 
That  e'er  defiled  your  earthly  dust,  — 

By  wrath,  by  pride,  by  fear, 
By  each  o'ermastering-  passion's  tone, 
By  the  dark  grave  and  dying  groan  ! 
When  forty  days  are  passed  and  gone, 
I  cite  you,  at  your  monarch's  throne 

To  answer  and  appear.'  — 
Then  thundered  forth  a  roll  of  names  :  — 
The  first  Avas  thine,  uidiappy  James  ! 

Then  all  thy  nobles  came ; 
CraAvford,  Griencairn,  Montrose,  Argyle, 
Eoss,  Bothwell,  Forbes,  Lennox,  Lyle,  — 
Why  should  I  tell  their  separate  style  ? 

Each  chief  of  birth  and  fame, 
Of  Lowland,  Highland,  Border,  Isle, 
Foredoomed  to  Flodden's  carnage  pile. 

Was  cited  there  by  name  ; 
And  Mai'mion,  Lord  of  Fontenaye, 


242  MARMION. 

Of  Lutterward,  and  Scrivelbaye ; 

De  Wilton,  erst  of  Aberley, 

The  self-same  thundering  voice  did  say.  — 

Biit  then  another  spoke  : 
'  Thy  fatal  summons  I  deny 
And  thine  infernal  lord  defy, 
Appealing  me  to  Him  on  high 

Who  burst  the  sinner's  yoke.' 
At  that  dread  accent,  with  a  scream, 
Parted  the  pageant  like  a  dream, 

The  summoncr  was  gone. 
Prone  on  her  face  the  abbess  fell, 
And  fast,  and  fast,  her  beads  did  tell ; 
Her  nuns  came,  startled  by  the  yell, 

And  found  her  there  alone. 
She  marked  not,  at  the  scene  aghast, 
What  time  or  how  the  Palmer  passed. 

XXVII. 

Shift  we  the  scene.  —  The  camp  doth  move ; 

Dun-Edin's  streets  are  empty  now, 
Save  when,  for  weal  of  those  they  love 

To  pray  the  prayer  and  vow  the  vow, 
The  tottering  child,  the  anxious  fair. 
The  gray-haired  sire,  with  pious  care. 
To  chapels  and  to  shrines  repair.  — 
Where  is  the  Palmer  now  ?  and  where 
The  abbess,  Marmion,  and  Clare  ?  — 
Bold  Douglas  !  to  Tantallon  fair 


THE   COURT.  243 

They  journey  in  tliy  cliarfi;e  : 
Lord  Mariiiioii  rode  on  liis  right  hand, 
The  Palmer  still  was  with  the  band; 
Angus,  like  Lindesay,  did  command 

That  none  should  roam  at  large. 
But  in  that  Palmer's  altered  uiieu 
A  wondrous  change  might  now  be  seen ; 

Freely  he  spoke  of  war, 
OF  marvels  wrought  by  single  liand 
When  lifted  for  a  native  land, 
And  still  looked  high,  as  if  he  planned 

Some  desperate  deed  afar. 
His  courser  would  he  feed  and  stroke. 
And,  tucking  up  his  sable  frock, 
Would  first  his  mettle  bold  provoke. 

Then  soothe  or  quell  his  pride. 
Old  Hubert  said  that  never  one 
He  saw,  except  Lord  Marmion, 

A  steed  so  fairly  ride. 

XXVIII. 

Some  half-hour's  march  behind  there  came. 

By  Eustace  governed  fair, 
A  troop  escorting  Hilda's  dame, 

With  all  her  nuns  and  (Uare. 
No  audience  had  Lord  Marmion  sought; 

Ever  he  feared  to  aggravate 

Clara  de  Clare's  suspicious  hate  ; 
And  safer  't  was,  he  thought. 


244  MARMION. 

To  wait  till,  from  the  nuns  removed, 
The  influence  of  kinsmen  loved. 
And  suit  by  Henry's  self  approved, 
Her  slow  consent  had  wrought. 

His  was  no  flickering  flame,  that  dies 

Unless  when  fanned  by  looks  and  sighs 

And  lighted  oft  at  lady's  eyes  ; 

He  longed  to  stretch  his  wide  command 

O'er  luckless  Clara's  ample  land  : 

Besides,  when  Wilton  with  him  vied, 

Although  the  pang  of  humbled  pride 

The  place  of  jealousy  supplied. 

Yet  conquest,  by  that  meanness  won 

He  almost  loathed  to  think  upon. 

Led  him,  at  times,  to  hate  the  cause 

Which  made  him  burst  through  honor's  laws. 

If  e'er  he  loved,  't  was  her  alone 

W^ho  died  within  that  vault  of  stone. 

XXIX. 

And  now,  when  close  at  hand  they  saw 
North  Berwick's  town  and  lofty  Law, 
Fitz-Eustace  bade  them  pause  awhile 
Before  a  venerable  pile 

Whose  turrets  viewed  afar 
The  lofty  Bass,  the  Lambie  Isle, 

The  ocean's  peace  or  wai*. 
At  tolling  of  a  bell,  forth  came 
The  convent's  venerable  dame, 


THE   COURT.  245 

And  prayed  Saint  Hilda's  abljcss  rest 
With  her,  a  loved  and  lionon'd  guest, 
Till  Doug-las  should  a  bark  prepare 
To  waft  her  back  to  Whitby  fair. 
Glad  was  the  abbess,  you  may  guess, 
And  thanked  the  Scottish  prioress ; 
And  tedious  were  to  tell,  1  ween, 
The  courteous  speech  that  passed  between. 

O'erjoyed  the  nuns  their  palfreys  leave; 
But  when  fair  Clara  did  intend. 
Like  them,  from  horseback  to  descend, 

Fitz-Eustace  said  :  '  I  grieve. 
Fair  lady,  grieve  e'en  from  my  heart. 
Such  gentle  company  to  part ;  — 

Think  not  discourtesy. 
But  lords'  commands  must  be  obeyed, 
And  Marniion  and  the  Douglas  said 

That  you  must  wend  with  me. 
Lord  Marniion  hath  a  letter  broad, 
Which  to  the  Scottish  earl  he  showed, 
Coniniauding  that  beneath  his  care 
Without  delay  you  shall  repair 
To  your  good  kinsman,  Lord  Fitz-Clare.' 

XXX. 

The  startled  abbess  loud  exclaimed  ; 
But  she  at  whom  the  blow  was  aimed 
Grew  pale  as  death  and  cold  as  lead, — 
She  deemed  she  heard  her  death-doom  read. 


246  MARMION. 

'  Cheer  thee,  my  chihl ! '  the  abbess  said, 
'  They  dare  not  tear  tliee  from  my  hand, 
To  ride  alone  witli  armed  l)and.'  — 

'  Nay,  holy  mother,  nay,' 
Fitz-Eustace  said,  '  the  lovely  Clare 
Will  be  in  Lady  Angus'  care, 

111  Scotland  while  we  stay  ; 
And  when  we  move  an  easy  ride 
Will  bring-  us  to  the  English  side, 
Eemale  attendance  to  provide 

Befitting  Gloster's  heir ; 
Nor  thinks  nor  dreams  my  noble  lord, 
By  slightest  look,  or  act,  or  word. 

To  harass  Lady  Clare. 
Her  faithful  guardian  he  will  be, 
Nor  sue  for  slightest  courtesy 

That  e'en  to  stranger  fulls, 
Till  he  shall  place  her  safe  and  free 

Within  her  kinsman's  halls.' 
He  spoke,  and  blushed  with  earnest  grace; 
His  faith  was  painted  on  his  face. 

And  Clare's  worst  fear  relieved. 
The  Lady  Abbess  loud  exclaimed 
On  Henry,  and  the  Douglas  blamed, 

Entreated,  threatened,  grieved, 
To  martyr,  saint,  and  propliet  prayed, 
Au-ainst  Lord  Marmion  inveighed, 
And  called  the  prioress  to  aid. 
To  curse  with  candle,  bell,  and  book. 
Her  head  the  grave  Cistertian  shook  : 


rilE  COURT.  HI 

'The  Douglas  and  tlio  king,'  she  said, 
'  111  their  commands  will  be  obeyed  ; 
Grieve  not,  nor  dream  that  harm  can  fall 
The  maiden  in  Tantallon  Hall.' 

XXXI. 

The  abbess,  seeing  strife  was  vain. 
Assumed  her  wonted  state  again,  — 

Eor  much  of  state  she  had,  — 
Composed  her  veil,  and  raised  her  head, 
And  '  Bid,'  in  solenni  voice  she  said, 

'  Thy  master,  bold  antl  bad. 
The  records  of  his  house  turn  o'er. 

And,  Avhen  he  shall  there  written  see 

That  one  of  his  own  ancestry 

Drove  the  monks  forth  of  Coventry, 
Bid  hira  his  fate  explore  ! 

Prancing  in  pride  of  earthly  trust, 

His  charger  hurled  him  to  the  dust. 

And,  by  a  base  plebeian  thrust, 
He  died  his  band  before. 

God  judge  'twixt  Marmion  and  me ;         • 

He  is  a  chief  of  high  degree. 
And  I  a  poor  recluse, 

Yet  oft  in  holy  writ  we  see 

Even  such  weak  minister  as  me 
May  the  oppressor  bruise  ; 

For  thus,  inspired,  did  Judith  slay 
The  mighty  in  his  sin, 


248  MARMION. 

And  Jael  tlms,  and  Deborah'  — 
Here  hasty  Blount  broke  in  : 
'  Fitz-Eustace,  we  must  niarcli  our  band. ; 
Saint  Anton'  fire  thee  !   wilt  thou  stand 
All  day,  Avith  bonnet  in  thy  hand, 

To  hear  the  hidy  preach  ? 
By  this  good  light  !  if  tlius  we  stay. 
Lord  Maniiion  for  our  fond  delay 

Will  sharper  sermon  teach. 
Come,  don  thy  cap  and  mount  thy  horse ; 
Tlie  dame  must  patience  take  perforce.' 

XXXII. 

'  Submit  we  then  to  force,'  said  Clare, 
'But  let  this  barbarous  lord  despair 

His  purposed  aim  to  win  ; 
Let  him  take  living,  land,  and  life, 
But  to  be  Marmion's  wedded  wife 

Li  me  were  deadly  sin  : 
And  if  it  be  the  king's  decree 
That  I  must  find  no  sanctuary 
,      Li  that  inviolable  dome 

Where  even  a  homicide  might  come 

And  safely  rest  his  head. 
Though  at  its  open  portals  stood, 
Thirsting  to  pour  forth  blood  for  blood, 

The  kinsmen  of  the  dead, 
Yet  one  asylum  is  my  own 

Against  the  dreaded  hour, — 


TUE   COURT 


249 


A  low,  a  silent,  aiul  ulouc, 

Where  king's  have  little  power. 
One  victim  is  before  me  there.  — 


Mother,  your  blessing,  and  in  prayer 
Eemember  yonr  unhappy  Clare  ! ' 
Loud  weeps  the  abbess,  and  bestows 
Kind  blessings  many  a  one ; 


250  MARMION. 

Weeping  and  wailing  loud  arose, 
Round  patient  Clare,  the  clamorous  woes 

Of  every  simple  nun. 
His  eyes  the  gentle  Eustace  dried, 
And  scarce  rude  Blount  the  sight  could  bide. 

Then  took  the  squire  her  rein, 
And  gently  led  away  her  steed, 
And  by  each  courteous  word  and  deed 

To  cheer  her  strove  in  vain. 

XXXIII. 

But  scant  three  miles  the  band  had  rode, 

Wlien  o'er  a  height  they  passed. 
And,  sudden,  close  before  thcni  showed 

His  towers  Tantallon  vast, 
Broad,  massive,  high,  and  stretching  far, 
Aiul  held  impregnable  in  war. 
On  a  projecting  rock  they  rose, 
And  round  three  sides  the  ocean  flows. 
The  fourth  did  battled  walls  enclose 

And  double  mound  and  fosse. 
By  narrow  drawbridge,  outworks  strong. 
Through  studded  gates,  an  entrance  long, 

To  the  main  court  they  cross. 
It  was  a  wide  and  stately  square ; 
Around  were  lodgings  fit  and  fair, 

And  towers  of  various  form. 
Which  on  the  court  projected  far 
And  broke  its  lines  quadrangular. 


THE   COURT.  251 

Here  was  square  keep,  there  turret  liigli 
Or  pimiaele  that  sout^'lit  the  sky, 
Wheiiec  oft  the  wartU'r  eoiihl  desery 
The  gathering  ocean-storm. 


XXXIV. 

Here  did  they  rest.  —  The  princely  care 
Of  Douglas  why  should  I  declare, 
Or  say  they  met  reception  fair? 

Or  why  the  tidings  say, 
AVIiich  varying  to  Tantallou  came, 
Ey  hurrying  posts  or  fleeter  fame, 

With  every  varying  day  ? 
And,  first,  they  heard  King  James  had  Avon 

Etall,  and  Wark,  and  Ford  ;  and  then. 

That  Noi-ham  Castle  strong  was  ta'en. 
At  tiiat  sore  marvelled  Marmion, 
And  Douglas  hoped  his  monareii's  hand 
Would  soon  subdue  Northumberland  ; 

But  whispered  news  there  came, 
That  while  his  host  inactive  lay, 
And  melted  by  degrees  away, 
King  James  was  dallying  off  the  day 

With  Heron's  wdy  dame. 
Such  acts  to  chronicles  I  yield  ; 

Go  seek  them  there  and  see  : 
Mine  is  a  tale  of  Flodden  Field, 

And  not  a  history.  — 
At  length  they  heard  the  Scottish  host 


25-2  MARMION. 

On  that  high  ridge  had  made  their  post, 

Which  frowns  o'er  Millfield  Plain  ; 
And  that  1)ravc  Surrey  many  a  band 
Had  gathered  in  the  Southern  land, 
And  marched  into  Northumberland, 

And  camp  at  Wooler  ta'en. 
Marmion,  like  charger  in  the  stall. 
That  hears,  without,  the  trumpet-call, 

Began  to  chafe  and  sweai- :  — 
*A  sorry  thing  to  hide  my  head 
In  castle,  like  a  fearful  maid. 
When  such  a  field  is  near. 
Needs  must  I  see  this  battle-day ; 
Death  to  my  fame  if  such  a  fray 
Were  fought,  and  Marmion  away! 
The  Douglas,  too,  I  wot  not  why. 
Hath  bated  of  his  courtesy  ; 
No  longer  in  his  halls  I  '11  stay  : ' 
Then  bade  his  band  they  should  array 
For  march  against  the  dawning  day. 


CANTO   SIXTH. 

THE   BATTLE. 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO   SIXTH. 


TO   RICHARD    IIEBER,   ESQ. 

Mertoun  House,  Christmas. 

Heap  on  more  wood  !  —  tlie  wind  is  chill; 

But  let  it  whistle  as  it  will, 

We  '11  keep  our  Christmas  merry  still. 

Each  ag-e  has  deemed  the  new-born  year 

The  fittest  time  for  festal  cheer: 

Even,  heathen  yet,  the  savage  Dane 

At  lol  more  deep  the  mead  did  drain, 

Hig-h  on  the  beach  his  galleys  drew. 

And  feasted  all  his  pirate  crew ; 

Then  in  his  low  and  pine-built  hall, 

Where  shields  and  axes  decked  the  wall. 

They  gorged  iipon  the  half-dressed  steer, 

Caroused  in  seas  of  saT)le  beer. 

While  round  in  brutal  jest  were  thrown 


356  MARMION. 

The  half-gnawed  rib  and  marrowbone, 
Or  listened  all  in  grim  delight 
While  scalds  yelled  out  the  joys  of  fight. 
Then  forth  in  frenzy  would  they  hie, 
While  wildly  loose  their  red  locks  fly, 
And  danciiig  round  the  blazing  pile, 
They  make  such  barbarous  mirth  the  while 
As  best  might  to  the  mind  recall 
The  boisterous  joys  of  Odin's  hall. 

And  well  our  Christian  sires  of  old 
Loved  when  the  year  its  course  had  rolled. 
And  brought  blithe  Christmas  back  again 
With  all  his  hospitable  train. 
Domestic  and  religious  rite 
Gave  honor  to  the  holy  night ; 
On  Christmas  eve  the  bells  were  rung. 
On  Christmas  eve  the  mass  was  sung : 
Tliat  only  night  in  all  the  year 
Saw  the  stoled  priest  the  chalice  rear. 
The  damsel  donned  her  kirtle  sheen ; 
Tlie  hall  was  dressed  with  holly  green ; 
Forth  to  the  wood  did  merry-men  go, 
To  gather  in  the  mistletoe. 
Tiien  opened  wide  the  baron's  hall 
To  vassal,  tenant,  serf,  and  all ; 
Power  laid  his  rod  of  rule  aside, 
And  Ceremony  dolled  his  pride. 
The  heir,  with  roses  in  his  shoes. 
That  night  might  village  partner  choose; 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  SIXTH.      257 

Tlu!  lord,  uu(lcrog-atiii<j,  sliarii 
Tlic  vulgar  game  of  '  post  and  pair.' 
All  hailed,  with  uncontrolled  delight 
vVnd  general  voice,  the  happy  night 
That  to  the  cottage,  as  the  crown, 
Broudit  tidings  of  salvation  down. 

The  fire,  with  well-dried  logs  supplied, 
Wc'ut  roaring  up  the  chimney  wide ; 
The  huge  hall-tal)le's  oal<en  face, 
Scrubbed  till  it  shone,  the  day  to  grace, 
l^ore  then  upon  its  massive  board 
No  mark  to  part  the  s([uire  and  lord. 
Then  was  brought  in  the  lusty  brawn 
By  old  blue-coated  scrving-nian  ; 
Tlien  the  grim  boar's-heatl  IVowned  on  high. 
Crested  with  bays  and  rosemary. 
Well  can  the  green-garbed  ranger  tell 
How,  when,  and  where,  tlie  monster  fell. 
What  dogs  before  his  death  he  tore. 
And  all  the  baiting  of  the  boar. 
The  wassail  round,  in  good  brown  bowls 
Garnished  with  ribbons,  blithely  trowls. 
There  the  huge  sirloin  reeked ;  hard  by 
Plum-porridge  stood  and  Christmas  pie ; 
Nor  failed  old  Scotland  to  produce 
At  such  high  tide  her  savory  goose. 
Then  came  the  merry  maskers  in, 
And  carols  roared  with  blithesome  din ; 
If  unmelodious  was  the  song. 


258  MARMION. 

It  was  a  hearty  note  and  strong. 

Who  lists  may  in  their  muinmiug  see 

Traces  of  ancient  mystery  ; 

White  shirts  supplied  the  masquerade, 

And  smutted  checks  the  visors  made ; 

But  oh  !  Avhat  maskers,  richly  dight, 

Can  boast  of  bosoms  half  so  light ! 

England  was  merry  England  when 

Old  Christmas  brought  his  sports  again. 

'T  was  Christmas  broached  the  mightiest  ale, 

'T  was  Christmas  told  the  merriest  tale  ; 

A  Christmas  gambol  oft  could  cheer 

The  poor  man's  heart  through  half  the  year. 

Still  linger  in  our  northern  clime 
Some  remnants  of  the  good  old  time. 
And  still  within  our  valleys  here 
We  hold  the  kindred  title  dear. 
Even  when,  perchance,  its  far-fetched  claim 
To  Southron  ear  sounds  empty  name; 
Por  course  of  blood,  our  proverbs  deem, 
Is  warmer  than  the  mountain-stream. 
And  thus  my  Christmas  still  I  hold 
Where  my  great-grandsire  came  of  old, 
With  amber  beard  and  flaxen  hair 
And  reverend  apostolic  air, 
The  feast  and  lioly-tide  to  share. 
And  mix  sobriety  with  wine, 
And  honest  mirth  with  thoughts  divine : 
Small  thought  was  his,  in  after  time 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  SIXTH.      259 

E'er  to  be  hitched  into  a  rhyme. 

The  simple  sire  could  only  boast 

That  he  was  loyal  to  his  cost, 

The  banished  race  of  kings  revered, 

And  lost  his  land,  —  bnt  kept  his  beard. 

In  these  dear  halls,  where  welcome  kind 
Is  with  fair  liberty  combined. 
Where  cordial  friendship  gives  the  hand. 
And  flies  constraint  the  magic  wand 
Of  the  fair  dame  that  rules  the  land, 
Little  we  heed  the  tempest  drear. 
While  music,  mirth,  and  social  cheer 
Speed  on  their  wings  the  passing  year. 
And  Mertouu's  halls  are  fair  e'en  now, 
When  not  a  leaf  is  on  the  bough. 
Tweed  loves  them  well,  and  turns  again. 
As  loath  to  leave  the  sweet  domain. 
And  holds  his  mirror  to  her  face, 
And  clips  her  with  a  close  embrace  :  — 
Gladly  as  he  we  seek  the  dome, 
And  as  reluctant  turn  us  home. 

How  just  that  at  this  time  of  glee 
My  thoughts  should,  Heber,  turn  to  thee ! 
For  many  a  merry  hour  we  've  known, 
And  heard  the  chimes  of  midnight's  tone. 
Cease,  then,  my  friend  !  a  moment  cease. 
And  leave  these  classic  tomes  in  peace  ! 
Of  Koman  and  of  Grrecian  lore 


260  MARMION. 

Sure  mortal  brain  can  hold  no  more. 

These  ancients,  as  Noll  ]51uif  might  say, 

'  Were  pretty  fellows  in  their  day,' 

But  time  and  tide  o'er  all  prevail  — 

On  Christinas  eve  a  Christmas  tale  — 

Of  Avonder  and  of  war  —  '  Profane  ! 

What !  leave  tlie  lofty  Latian  strain, 

Her  stately  prose,  her  verse's  charms, 

To  hear  the  clash  of  rusty  arms  ; 

111  Fairy-land  or  Limbo  lost. 

To  jostle  conjurer  and  g-host, 

Goblin  and  witch  !  '  —  Nay,  Helper  dear. 

Before  you  touch  my  charter,  hear ; 

Though  Leyden  aids,  alas  !   no  more. 

My  cause  with  mauy-laiiguaged  lore, 

This  may  I  say  :  — -in  realms  of  death 

Ulysses  meets  Alcides'  wraith, 

jEneas  upon  Thracia's  shore 

The  ghost  of  murdered  Polydore ; 

For  omens,  we  in  Livy  cross 

At  every  turn  locutns  Bos. 

As  grave  and  duly  speaks  that  ox 

As  if  he  told  the  price  of  stocks, 

Or  held  in  Rome  republican 

The  place  of  Common-councilman. 

All  nations  have  their  omens  drear, 
Their  legends  wild  of  woe  and  fear. 
To  Cambria  look  —  the  p(;asant  see 
Bethink  him  of  Glendowerdy 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  SIXTH.      261 

And  slnui  Mlic  Spirit's  Blasted  Tree.'  — 

The  llig-hlaiider,  whose  n-d  claymore 

The  battk;  turned  oil  Maida's  shore, 

Will  on  a  Priday  inorn  look  pale, 

If  asked  to  tell  a  fairy  tale  : 

He  fears  the  vengeful  Elfin  King, 

Who  leaves  that  day  his  grassy  ring ; 

Invisible  to  human  ken. 

He  walks  among  the  sons  of  men. 

Didst  e'er,  dear  Heher,  pass  along 
Beneath  the  towers  of  Franchemont, 
Which,  like  an  eagle's  nest  in  air, 
Hang  o'er  the  stream  and  hamlet  fair? 
Deep  in  their  vaults,  the  peasants  say, 
A  mighty  treasure  buried  lay, 
Amassed  through  rapine  and  through  wrong 
V>y  the  last  Lord  of  Pranchemont. 
The  iron  chest  is  bolted  hard, 
A  huntsman  sits  its  constant  guard ; 
Around  his  neck  his  horn  is  hung. 
His  hanger  in  his  belt  is  slung  ; 
Before  his  feet  his  bloodhounds  lie  : 
An  'twere  not  for  his  gloomy  eye. 
Whose  withering  glance  no  heart  can  brook, 
As  true  a  huntsman  doth  he  look 
As  bugle  e'er  in  brake  did  sound, 
Or  ever  hallooed  to  a  hound. 
To  chase  the  fiend  and  win  the  prize 
In  that  same  dungeon  ever  tries 


263  M ARM  ION. 

An  aged  neoromaiitic  priest ; 

It  is  an  hundred  years  at  least 

Since  'twixt  them  first  the  strife  begun, 

And  neither  yet  has  lost  nor  Avon. 

And  oft  the  conjurer's  words  will  make 

The  stubborn  demon  groan  and  quake ; 

And  oft  the  bands  of  iron  break, 

Or  bursts  one  lock  that  still  amain, 

Fast  as  't  is  opened,  shuts  again. 

That  magic  strife  within  the  tomb 

May  last  until  the  day  of  doom, 

Unless  the  adept  shall  learn  to  tell 

The  very  word  that  clenched  the  spell 

When  Franch'mont  locked  the  treasure  cell. 

An  hundred  years  are  passed  and  gone, 

And  scarce  three  letters  has  he  won. 

Such  general  superstition  may 
Excuse  for  old  Pitscottie  say, 
Whose  gossip  history  has  given 
My  song  the  messenger  from  heaven 
That  warned,  in  LithgoAv,  Scotland's  king, 
Nor  less  the  infernal  summoning ; 
May  pass  the  Monk  of  Durham's  tale. 
Whose  demon  fought  in  Gothic  mail ; 
May  pardon  plead  for  Pordmi  grave. 
Who  told  of  Gifford's  Goblin-Cave. 
But  why  such  instances  to  you, 
Who  in  an  instant  can  renew 
Your  treasured  hoards  of  various  lore. 


INTRODUCTION  TO   CANTO  SIXTH.       263 

Aiul  fiirnisli  twenty  tliotisaiid  more? 
Hoards,  not  liko  tlunrs  wliose  volumes  rest 
Like  treasures  in  the  Fraucli'monI  chest, 
While  gripple  owners  still  refuse 
To  others  what  they  cannot  use ; 
Give  them  the  priest's  whole  rcntury, 
They  shall  not  spell  you  letters  three,  — 
Tlieir  pleasure  iu  the  books  the  same 
The  magpie  takes  in  pilfered  gem. 
Thy  volumes,  opcni  as  thy  heart, 
Delight,  amusement,  science,  art, 
To  every  ear  and  eye  impart ; 
Yet  who,  of  all  who  thus  employ  them, 
Can  like  the  owner's  self  enjoy  them  ?  — 
But,  hark  !  I  hear  the  distant  drum  ! 
The  day  of  Flodden  Field  is  come,  — 
Adieu,  dear  Hebcr !   life  and  health, 
And  store  of  literary  wealth. 


CANTO   SIXTH. 

THE    BATTLE. 

I. 

While  great  events  were  on  the  gale, 

And  each  hour  brought  a  varying  tale, 

And  the  demeanor,  changed  and  cold, 

Of  Douglas  fretted  Marraion  bold. 

And,  like  the  impatient  steed  of  war, 

He  snuffed  the  battle  from  afar, 

And  hopes  were  none  that  back  again 

Herald  sliould  come  from  Terouenne, 

Where  England's  king  in  leaguer  lay, 

Before  decisive  battle-day,  — 

While  these  things  were,  the  mournful  Clare 

Did  in  the  dame's  devotions  share ; 

For  the  good  countess  ceaseless  prayed 

To  Heaven  and  saints  her  sons  to  aid, 

And  witli  short  interval  did  pass 

From  prayer  to  book,  from  book  to  mass, 

And  all  in  high  baronial  pride,  — 


266  MARMION. 

k  life  both  dull  and  dignified  : 

Yet,  as  Lord  Marmiou  nothing  pressed 

Upon  lier  intervals  of  n^st, 

Dejected  Clara  well  coidd  bear 

The  formal  state,  the  lengthened  prayer, 

Though  dearest  to  her  wounded  heart 

Tliu  hours  that  she  might  spend  apart. 


II. 


I  said  Tantallon's  dizzy  steep 

Hung  o'er  the  margin  of  the  deep. 

Many  a  rude  tower  and  rampart  there 

Repelled  the  insult  of  the  air, 

Which,  when  the  tempest  vexed  the  sky, 

Half  breeze,  half  spray,  came  whistling  by. 

Above  the  rest  a  turret  square 

Did  o'er  its  Gothic  entrance  bear, 

Of  sculpture  rude,  a  stony  shield; 

The  Bloody  Heart  Avas  in  the  field. 

And  in  the  chief  three  mullets  stood, 

The  cognizance  of  Douglas  blood. 

The  turret  held  a  narrow  stair. 

Which,  mounted,  gave  you  access  where 

A  parapet's  embattled  row 

Did  seaward  round  the  castle  go. 

Sometimes  in  dizzy  steps  descending. 

Sometimes  in  narrow  circuit  bending, 

Sometimes  in  platform  broad  extending. 


THE  BATTLE.  267 

Its  varyiuji;  cirdc  did  coiiibiiio 

Bulwark,  uiid  bartizan,  and  line, 

And  bastion,  tower,  and  vantage-coign. 

Above  tiu^  l)()oniiiig-  ocean  leant 

The  far-projecting  battlemcnit ; 

The  billows  burst  in  ceaseless  flow 

Upon  the  precipice  below. 

Where'er  Tantallou  faced  the  land, 

Gate-works  and  walls  were  strongly  manned ; 

No  need  upon  the  sea-girt  side : 

The  steepy  rock  and  frantic  tide 

Approach  of  human  step  denied. 

And  thus  these  lines  and  ramparts  rude 

Were  left  in  deepest  solitude. 


III. 

And,  for  they  were  so  lonely,  Clare 
Would  to  these  battlements  repair, 
And  muse  upon  her  sorrows  there, 

And  list  the  sea-bird's  cry. 
Or  slow,  like  noontide  gliost,  would  glide 
Along  the  dark-gray  bulwarks'  side, 
And  ever  on  the  heaving  tide 

Look  down  with  weary  eye. 
Oft  did  the  cliff  and  swelling  main 
Recall  the  thoughts  of  Whitby's  fane,  — 
A  home  she  ne'er  might  see  again ; 

For  she  had  laid  adown, 


268  MARMION. 

So  Douglas  Lade,  the  hood  and  veil. 
And  frontlet  of  the  cloister  pale, 

And  Benedictine  gown  : 
It  were  iinseenily  sight,  he  said, 
A  novice  out  of  convent  shade.  — 
Now  her  bright  locks  with  sunny  glow 
Again  adorned  her  brow  of  snow ; 
Her  mantle  rich,  whose  borders  round 
A  deep  and  fretted  broidery  bound. 
In  golden  foldings  sought  the  ground ; 
Of  holy  ornament,  alone 
Remained  a  cross  with  ruby  stone ; 

And  often  did  she  look 
On  that  which  in  her  hand  she  bore. 
With  velvet  bound  and  broidered  o'er, 

Her  breviary  book. 
In  such  a  place,  so  lone,  so  grim, 
At  dawning  pale  or  twilight  dim. 

It  fearful  would  have  been 
To  meet  a  form  so  richly  dressed, 
With  book  in  hand,  and  cross  on  breast. 

And  such  a  woful  mien. 
Pitz-Eustace,  loitering  with  his  bow, 
To  practise  on  the  gull  and  crow, 
Saw  her  at  distance  gliding  slow. 

And  did  by  Mary  swear 
Some  lovelorn  fay  she  might  have  been, 
Or  in  romance  some  spell-bound  queen. 
For  ne'er  in  work-day  world  was  seen 

A  form  so  witching  fair. 


TUE  BATTLE.  269 


IV. 

Once  walking-  thus  at  evening  tide 
It  elianced  a  gliding  sail  she  spied, 
And  sighing  thought  — '  The  abbess  there 
Perchance  does  to  licr  home  repair ; 
Her  peaceful  rule,  where  Duty  free 
Walks  hand  in  hand  with  Charity, 
Where  oft  Devotion's  tranced  glow 
Can  such  a  glimpse  of  heaven  bestow 
That  the  enraptured  sisters  see 
High  vision  and  deep  mystery,  — 
The  very  form  of  Hilda  fair, 
Hovering  upon  the  sunny  air 
And  smiling  on  her  votaries'  prayer. 
Oh  !  wherefore  to  my  duller  eye 
Did  still  the  Saint  her  form  deny  ? 
Was  it  that,  seared  by  sinful  scorn, 
My  heart  could  neither  melt  nor  burn  ? 
Or  lie  my  warm  affections  low 
With  him  that  taught  them  first  to  glow? 
Yet,  gentle  abbess,  well  I  knew 
To  pay  thy  kindness  grateful  due. 
And  well  could  brook  the  mild  command 
That  ruled  thy  simple  maiden  band. 
How  different  now,  condemned  to  bide 
My  doom  from  this  dark  tyrant's  pride  !  — 
But  Marmion  has  to  learn  ere  long- 
That  constant  mind  and  hate  of  wrong 
Descended  to  a  feeble  girl 


270  MARMION. 

From  Red  de  Clare,  stout  Gloster's  Earl 

Of  such  a  stem  a  sapling  weak, 

He  ne'er  shall  bend,  altliough  he  break. 


'  But  see  !  —  what  makes  this  armor  here  ?  '  — 

For  in  her  path  there  lay- 
Targe,  corselet,  helm  ;  —  she  viewed  them  near.  • 
'  The  breastplate  pierced  !  —  Ay,  much  I  fear, 
Weak  fence  wert  thou  'gainst  foeman's  spear, 
That  hath  made  fatal  entrance  here, 

As  these  dark  blood-gouts  say.  — 
Thus  Wilton  !  —  Oh  !  not  corselet's  ward, 
Not  truth,  as  diamond  pure  and  hard. 
Could  be  thv  manlv  bosom's  guard 

On  yon  disastrous  day  ! '  — 
She  raised  her  eyes  in  mournful  mood,  — 
AVilton  himself  before  her  stood  ! 
It  might  have  seemed  his  passing  ghost. 
For  every  youthful  grace  Avas  lost, 
And  joy  unwonted  and  surprise 
Gave  their  strange  wildness  to  his  eves.  — 
Expect  not,  noble  dames  and  lords, 
That  I  can  tell  such  scene  in  words : 
Wliat  skilful  limner  e'er  would  choose 
To  paint  the  rainbow's  varying  hues. 
Unless  to  mortal  it  were  given 
To  dip  his  brush  in  dyes  of  heaven  ? 


272  MARMION. 

Far  less  can  my  weak  line  declare 
Each  clianging-  passion's  shade  : 
Brightening  to  rapture  from  despair, 
SoiTOw,  surprise,  and  pity  there. 
And  joy  witli  her  angelic  air, 
And  hope  that  paints  the  future  fair. 

Their  varying  hues  displayed  ; 
Each  o'er  its  rival's  ground  extending, 
Alternate  conquering,  shifting,  blending, 
Till  all  fatigued  the  conflict  yield, 
And  mighty  love  retains  the  field. 
Shortly  I  tell  what  then  he  said, 
By  many  a  tender  word  delayed. 
And  modest  blush,  and  l)ursting  sigh, 
And  question  kind,  and  Ibnd  reply  :  — 


VI. 

DE   WILTON's    history. 

'  Forget  we  that  disastrous  day 
When  senseless  in  the  lists  I  lay. 

Thence  dragged,  —  but  how  I  cannot  know. 
For  sense  and  recollection  fled,  — 

I  found  me  on  a  pallet  low 

Within  my  ancient  beadsman's  shed. 

Austin, — remembcr'st  thou,  my  Clare, 
How  thou  didst  blush  when  the  old  man, 
When  first  our  infant  love  began, 

Said  we  would  make  a  matchless  pair  ?  — 


THE  BATTLE.  273 

Menials  and  friends  and  kinsmen  fled 
From  the  dco-raded  traitor's  bed,  — 
He  only  held  my  burning  head, 
And  tended  me  for  many  a  day 
While  wounds  and  fever  held  their  sway. 
But  far  more  needful  was  his  care 
When  sense  returned  to  wake  despair ; 

For  I  did  tear  the  closing  wound, 

And  dash  me  frantic  on  the  ground, 
If  e'er  I  heard  the  name  of  Clare. 
At  length,  to  calmer  reason  brought, 
Much  by  his  kind  attendance  wrought. 

With  him  I  left  my  native  strand. 
And,  in  a  palmer's  weeds  arrayed. 
My  hated  name  and  form  to  shade, 

I  journeyed  many  a  land. 
No  more  a  lord  of  rank  and  birth, 
But  mino'led  with  tlie  dregs  of  earth. 

Oft  Austin  for  my  reason  feared, 
When  I  would  sit,  and  deeply  brood 
On  dark  revenge  and  deeds  of  blood. 

Or  wild  mad  schemes  upreared. 
My  friend  at  length  fell  sick,  and  said 

God  would  remove  him  soon  ; 
And  while  upon  his  dying  bed 

He  begged  of  me  a  boon  — 
If  e'er  my  deadliest  enemy 
Beneath  my  brand  shoukl  conquered  lie. 
Even  then  my  mercy  should  awake 
And  spare  his  life  for  Austin's  sake. 


274  MARMION. 


VII. 


'  Still  restless  as  a  second  Cain, 

To  Scotland  next  my  route  was  ta'en, 

Full  well  the  paths  I  knew. 
Fame  of  ray  fate  made  various  sound, 
That  death  in  pilgrimage  I  found. 
That  I  had  perished  of  my  wound,  — 

None  cared  which  tale  was  true ; 
And  living  eye  could  never  guess 
De  Wilton  in  his  palmer's  dress. 
For  now  that  sable  slough  is  shed, 
And  trimmed  my  shaggy  beard  and  head, 
I  scarcely  know  me  in  the  glass. 
A  chance  most  wondrous  did  provide 
That  I  should  be  that  baron's  guide  — 

I  will  not  name  his  name !  — 
Vengeance  to  God  alone  belongs  ; 
But,  when  I  think  on  all  my  wrongs. 

My  blood  is  liquid  flame  ! 
And  ne'er  the  time  shall  I  forget 
When,  in  a  Scottish  hostel  set, 

Dark  looks  we  did  exchange  : 
What  Avere  his  thoughts  I  cannot  tell, 
But  in  my  bosom  mustered  Hell 

Its  plans  of  dark  revenge. 

VIII. 

'  A  word  of  vulgar  augury 

That  broke  from  me,  I  scarce  knew  why. 


THE  BATTLE.  275 

Brought,  on  a  village  tale, 
Which  wroun-ht  upon  his  moody  sprite, 
And  sent  him  armed  forth  by  night. 

I  borrowed  steed  and  mail 
And  weapons  from  his  sleeping  band  ; 

And,  passing  from  a  postern  door. 
We  met  and  'countered,  hand  to  hand,  — 

He  fell  on  Gifford-moor. 
For  the  death-stroke  my  brand  I  drew,  — 
Oh !  then  my  helmed  head  he  knew. 

The  palmer's  cowl  was  gone,  — 
Then  had  three  inches  of  my  blade 
The  heavy  debt  of  vengeance  paid, — 
My  hand  the  thought  of  Austin  stayed ; 

I  left  him  there  alone.  — 
O  good  old  man  !  even  from  the  grave 
Thy  spirit  could  thy  master  save : 
If  I  had  slain  my  foeman,  ne'er 
Had  Whitby's  abbess  in  her  fear 
Given  to  my  hand  this  packet  dear. 
Of  power  to  clear  my  injured  fame 
And  vindicate  De  Wilton's  name.  — 
Perchance  you  heard  the  abbess  tell 
Of  the  strange  pageantry  of  hell 

That  broke  our  secret  speech  — 
It  rose  from  the  infernal  shade, 
Or  featly  was  some  juggle  played, 

A  tale  of  peace  to  teach. 
Appeal  to  Heaven  I  judged  was  best 
When  my  name  came  among  the  rest. 


276  MARMION. 


IX. 


'  Now  liere  within  Tantalloii  hold 

To  Douglas  late  my  tale  I  told. 

To  whom  my  house  Avas  known  of  old. 

Won  by  my  proofs,  his  falchion  bright 

This  eve  anew  shall  dub  me  knight. 

These  were  the  arms  that  once  did  turn 

The  tide  of  fight  on  Ottcrburne, 

And  Harry  Hotspur  forced  to  yield 

When  the  Dead  Douglas  won  the  field. 

These  Angus  gave  —  his  armorer's  care 

Ere  morn  shall  every  breach  repair ; 

Por  nought,  he  said,  was  in  his  halls 

But  ancient  armor  on  the  walls. 

And  aged  chargers  in  the  stalls, 

And  women,  priests,  and  gray-haired  men ; 

The  rest  were  all  in  Twiscl  glen. 

And  now  I  watch  my  armor  here, 

Ey  law  of  arms,  till  midnight's  near; 

Then,  once  again  a  belted  knight. 

Seek  Surrey's  camp  with  dawn  of  light. 


X. 


'  There  soon  again  we  meet,  my  Clare  ! 
This  baron  means  to  guide  thee  there : 
Douglas  reveres  his  king's  command, 
Else  would  he  take  thee  from  his  band. 


THE  BATTLE. 


277 


And  tliore  thy  kiiisman  Surrey,  too, 
Will  give  l)e  Wilton  justiee  (lue. 
Now  raeetcr  far  for  martial  broil, 
Fii-inor  my  limbs  and  strung  by  toil. 


Once  more' —  '  O  Wilton  !  must  we  then 
Eisk  new-found  happiness  again, 

Trust  fate  of  arms  once  more  ? 
And  is  there  not  an  humble  glen 

Where  we,  content  and  poor, 
Might  build  a  cottage  in  the  shade, 


278  MARMION. 

A  shepherd  thou,  and  I  to  aid 

Thy  task  on  dale  and  moor  ?  — 
That  reddening  brow  !  — too  well  I  know 
Not  even  thy  Chire  can  peace  bestow 

While  falsehood  stains  thy  name  : 
Go  then  to  fi2,-ht !   Clare  bids  thee  s;o  ! 
Clare  can  a  warrior's  feelings  knoAV 

And  weep  a  warrior's  shame, 
Can  Eed  Earl  Gilbert's  spirit  feel. 
Buckle  the  spurs  upon  thy  heel 
And  belt  tliee  witli  thv  brand  of  steel. 

And  send  thee  forth  to  fame  ! ' 

XI. 

That  night  upon  the  roeks  and  bay 
The  midnight  moonbeam  slumbering  lay. 
And  poured  its  silver  light  and  pure 
Through  loophole  and  through  endjrasure 

Upon  Tantallon  tower  and  hall  ; 
But  chief  wliere  arched  windows  wide 
Illuminate  the  chapel's  pride 

The  sober  glances  fall. 
Much  was  there  need  ;   though  seamed  with  scars, 
Two  veterans  of  the  Douglas'  wars. 

Though  two  gray  priests  were  tliere. 
And  each  a  blazing  torch  held  high. 
You  could  not  by  tlieir  blaze  descry 

The  chapel's  carving  fair. 
Amid  that  dim  and  smoky  light, 
Checkering  the  silvery  moonshine  bright, 


THE  BATTLE.  279 

A  bishop  by  tlio  altar  stood, 

A  noble  lord  ol"  Douglas  blood, 
With  mitre  sheen  and  rochet  white. 
Yet  showed  his  meek  and  thoughtful  eye 
But  little  pride  of  prelacy  ; 
More  pleased  that  in  a  barbarous  age 
He  gave  rude  Scotland  Virgil's  page 
Than  that  beneath  his  rule  he  held 
The  bishopric  of  fixir  Dunkeld.   . 
Beside  hiui  ancient  Angus  stood, 
Doft'ed  his  furred  gown  and  sable  hood  ; 
O'er  his  huge  form  and  visage  pale 
He  wore  a  cap  and  shirt  of  mail, 
And  leaned  his  large  and  wrinkled  hand 
Upon  the  huge  and  sweeping  brand 
Which  wont  of  yore  in  battle  fray 
His  foeman's  limbs  to  shred  away, 
As  wood-knife  lops  the  sapling  spray. 

He  seemed  as,  from  the  tombs  around 
Rising  at  judgment-day, 

Some  giant  Douglas  may  be  found 
In  all  his  old  array  ; 
So  pale  his  face,  so  huge  his  limb, 
So  old  his  arms,  his  look  so  grim. 

XII. 

Then  at  the  altar  Wilton  kneels, 
And  Clare  the  spurs  boinul  on  his  heels ; 
And  think  what  next  he  must  have  felt 
At  buckling  of  the  falchion  belt ! 


280  MARMION. 

And  judge  how  Clara  changed  her  hue 
While  fastening-  to  her  lover's  side 
A  friend,  which,  thoiigh  in  danger  tried. 

He  once  had  found  untrue  ! 
Then  Douglas  strnek  him  with  his  blade: 
'  Saint  Michael  and  Saint  Andrew  aid, 

I  dub  thee  knight. 
Arise,  Sir  lltdjih,  De  Wilton's  heir! 
For  king,  for  church,  for  huly  fair. 

See  that  thou  figlit.' 
And  Bishop  Gawain,  as  he  rose. 
Said  :  '  Wilton  !  grieve  not  for  thv  woes. 

Disgrace,  and  trouble ; 
For  He  who  honor  best  bestows 

May  give  thee  double.' 
De  Wilton  sobbed,  for  sob  he  must : 
'  Where'er  I  meet  a  Douglas,  trust 

That  Douglas  is  my  brother  ! ' 
'Nay,  nay,'  old  Angus  said,  '  not  so; 
To  Surrey's  camp  thou  now  must  go. 

Thy  Avrongs  no  longer  smother. 
1  have  two  sons  in  yonder  field ; 
And,  if  thou  meet'st  them  under  shield, 
Upon  them  bravely  —  do  tliy  worst, 
And  foul  fall  him  that  blenches  first ! ' 

XIII. 

Not  far  advanced  was  morning  day 
When  Marmion  did  his  troop  array 
To  Surrey's  camp  to  ride; 


THE  BATTLE.  281 

He  had  safe-conduct  for  liis  band 
Beneath  the  royal  seal  ami  hand, 

And  Douglas  gave  a  guide. 
The  ancient  earl  Avith  stately  grace 
Would  Clara  on  her  palfrey  place, 
And  whispered  in  an  undertone, 
'  Let  the  hawk  stoop,  his  prey  is  Hown.' 
The  train  from  out  the  castle  drew, 
But  Marniion  stopped  to  bid  adieu: 

'Though  something  I  might  plain,'  he  said, 
'  Of  cohl  respect  to  stranger  guest, 
Sent  hither  by  your  king's  behest, 

While  in  Tantallon's  towers  I  stayed, 
Part  we  in  friendship  from  your  land. 
And,  noble  earl,  receive  my  hand.'  — 
But  Douglas  round  him  drew  his  cloak, 
Folded  his  arms,  and  thus  he  spoke  :  — 
'  My  manors,  halls,  and  bowers  shall  still 
Be  open  at  my  sovereign's  will 
To  eacli  one  whom  he  lists,  howe'er 
Unmeet  to  be  the  owner's  peer. 
My  castles  are  my  king's  alone. 
Prom  turret  to  foundation-stone  — 
The  hand  of  Douglas  is  his  own. 
And  never  shall  in  friendly  grasp 
The  hand  of  such  as  Marmion  clasp.' 

XIV. 

Burned  Marmion's  swarthy  cheek  like  fire 
And  shook  his  very  frame  for  ire, 


283  MARMION. 

And  —  •'  This  to  me  ! '  he  said, 
'An  't  were  not  for  thy  hoary  beard, 
Such  hand  as  Marmion's  had  not  spared 

To  cleave  the  Douglas'  head  ! 
And  first  I  tell  thee,  haughty  peer, 
He  who  does  England's  message  here, 
Although  the  meanest  in  her  state, 
May  well,  proud  Angus,  be  thy  mate ; 
And,  Douglas,  more  I  tell  thee  here. 

Even  in  thy  pitch  of  pride. 
Here  in  thy  hold,  thy  vassals  near,  — 
Nay,  never  look  upon  your  lord. 
And  lay  your  hands  upon  your  sword,  — 

I  tell  thee,  thou  'rt  defied  ! 
And  if  thou  saidst  I  am  not  peer 
To  any  lord  in  Scotland  here, 
Lowland  or  Highland,  far  or  near, 

Lord  Angus,  thou  hast  lied  ! ' 
On  the  earl's  cheek  the  flush  of  rase 
O'ercame  the  ashen  hue  of  age  : 
Fierce  he  broke  forth,  —  '  And  darest  thou  then 
To  beard  the  lion  in  his  den, 

The  Douglas  in  his  hall  ? 
And  hopest  thou  hence  unscathed  to  go  ?  — 
No,  by  Saint  Bride  of  Bothwell,  no  ! 
Up  drawbridge,  grooms  —  what,  warder,  ho  ! 

Let  the  portcullis  f^ill.'  — 
Lord  Marmion  turned,  —  well  was  his  need,  — 
And  dashed  the  rowels  in  his  steed. 
Like  arrow  through  the  archway  sprung, 


284  HARM  ION. 

Tlie  ponderous  grate  bcliind  him  rung ; 
To  pass  there  was  sucli  scanty  room, 
The  bars  descending  razed  liis  plume. 


XV. 

The  steed  along  the  drawbridge  flies 

Just  as  it  trembled  on  the  rise  ; 

Not  lighter  does  the  swallow  skim 

Along  the  smooth  lake's  level  brim  : 

And  when  Lord  Marmiou  reached  his  band, 

He  halts,  and  turns  with  clenched  hand, 

And  shout  of  loud  defiance  pours, 

And  shook  his  gauntlet  at  the  towers. 

'  Horse  !  horse  !  '  the  Douglas  cried,  '  and  chase  ! ' 

But  soon  he  reigned  his  fury's  pace  : 

'  A  royal  messenger  he  came, 

Though  most  unworthy  of  the  name.  — 

A  letter  forged  !   Saint  Jude  to  speed  ! 

Did  ever  knight  so  foul  a  deed  ? 

At  first  in  heart  it  liked  me  ill 

When  the  king  praised  his  clerkly  skill. 

Thanks  to  Saint  Bothan,  son  of  mine, 

Save  GaAvain,  ne'er  could  pen  a  line  ; 

So  swore  I,  and  I  swear  it  still, 

Let  my  boy-bishop  fret  his  fill.  — 

Saint  Mary  mend  my  fiery  mood ! 

Old  age  ne'er  cools  the  Douglas  blood, 

I  thought  to  slay  him  where  he  stood. 

'T  is  pity  of  him  too,'  he  cried  : 


THE  BATTLE. 

'  Bold  can  he  speak  and  fairly  ritlc, 
1  warrant  liini  a  warrior  tried.' 
With  this  his  mandate  he  recalls, 
And  slowly  seeks  his  castle  halls. 

XVI. 

The  day  in  Marinion's  journey  wore ; 
Yet,  ere  his  passion's  gust  was  o'er, 
They  crossed  the  heights  of  Stanrig-moor. 


285 


His  troop  more  closely  there  he  scanned. 
And  missed  the  Palmer  from  the  band. 
'  Palmer  or  not,'  young  Blount  did  say, 
'  He  parted  at  the  peep  of  day  ; 
Good  sooth,  it  was  in  strange  array.' 
'  In  what  array  ?  '  said  Marraion  quick. 


286  MARMION. 

'  My  lord,  I  ill  can  spell  the  trick  ; 

But  all  night  long  with  clink  and  bang 

Close  to  ray  couch  did  hannncrs  clang  ; 

At  daAvn  the  falling  drawbridge  rang, 

And  from  a  loophole  while  I  peep, 

Old  Bell-the-Cat  came  from  the  keep, 

Wrapped  in  a  gown  of  sables  fair. 

As  fearful  of  the  morning  air  ; 

Beneath,  when  that  was  blown  aside, 

A  rusty  shirt  of  mail  I  spied, 

By  Archibald  won  in  bloody  work 

Against  the  Saracen  and  Turk  : 

Last  night  it  hung  not  in  the  hall ; 

I  thought  some  marvel  would  befall. 

And  next  I  saw  them  saddled  lead 

Old  Cheviot  forth,  the  carl's  best  steed, 

A  matchless  horse,  though  something  old, 

Prompt  in  his  paces,  cool  and  bold. 

I  heard  the  Sheriff  Sholto  say 

The  earl  did  much  the  IMaster  pray 

To  use  him  on  the  battle-day. 

But  he  preferred  '  —  '  Nay,  Henry,  cease  ! 

Thou  sworn  horse-courser,  hold  thy  peace.  ■ 

Eustace,  thou  bear'st  a  brain  —  I  pray. 

What  did  Blount  sec  at  break  of  day  ? '  — 

XVII. 

'  In  brief,  my  lord,  we  both  descried  — 
For  then  I  stood  by  Henry's  side  — 


THE  BATTLE.  287 

The  Palmer  mount  and  outwards  ride 

Upon  the  curl's  own  favorite;  steed. 
All  sheathed  he  was  in  armor  bright, 
And  much  resembled  that  same  knight 
Subdued  by  you  in  Cotswokl  fight ; 

Lord  Angus  wished  him  speed.'  — 
The  instant  that  Fitz-Eustace  spoke, 
A  sudden  light  on  Marmion  broke  :  — 
'  Ah  !  dastard  fool,  to  reason  lost  !  ' 
He  muttered  ;  '  'T  was  nor  fay  nor  ghost 
I  met  upon  the  moonlight  Avoid, 
But  living  man  of  earthly  mould.  — 

O  dotage  blind  and  gross  ! 
Had  I  but  fought  as  wont,  one  thrust 
Had  laid  De  Wilton  in  the  dust, 

My  path  no  more  to  cross.  — 
How  stand  Ave  uoav  ?  —  he  told  liis  tale 
To  Douglas,  and  Avith  some  avail ; 

'T  was  therefore  gloomed  his  rugged  broAv.  — 
Will  Surrey  dare  to  entertain 
'Gainst  Marmion  charge  disproved  and  A-ain  ? 

Small  risk  of  that,  I  trow. 
Yet  Clare's  sharp  questions  must  I  shun, 
Must  separate  Constance  from  the  nun  — 
Oh  !  what  a  tangled  Aveb  Ave  Aveave 
When  first  A\^e  practise  to  deceive  ! 
A  Palmer  too  !  —  no  Avonder  Avhy 
I  felt  rebuked  beneath  his  eye  ; 
I  might  haA^e  known  there  aa^ts  but  one 
Whose  look  could  quell  Lord  Marmion.' 


288  MARMION. 


XVIII. 

Stung  with  these  thoughts,  he  urged  to  speed 
His  troop,  and  reached  at  eve  the  Tweed, 
Where  Lennel's  convent  closed  their  march.  — 
There  now  is  left  but  one  frail  arch, 

Yet  mourn  thou  not  its  cells ; 
Our  time  a  fair  exchange  has  made  : 
Hard  by,  in  hospitable  shade, 

A  reverend  pilgrim  dwells, 
Well  worth  the  whole  Bernardine  brood 
That  e'er  wore  sandal,  frock,  or  hood.  — 
Yet  did  Saint  Bernard's  abbot  there 
Give  Marmiou  entertainment  fair, 
And  lodging  for  liis  train  and  Clare. 
Next  morn  the  baron  climbed  the  tower, 
To  view  afar  the  Scottish  power, 

Encamped  on  Plodden  edge  ; 
The  white  pavilions  made  a  show 
Like  remnants  of  the  winter  snow 

Along  the  dusky  ridge. 
Long  Marraion  looked  :  — at  length  his  eye 
Unusual  movement  might  descry 

Amid  the  shifting  lines  ; 
The  Scottish  host  drawn  out  appears, 
For,  flashing  on  the  hedge  of  spears. 

The  eastern  sunbeam  shines. 
Their  front  now  deepening,  now  extending, 
Their  flank  inclining,  wheeling,  bending, 
Now  drawing  back,  and  now  descending. 


THE   BATTLE.  289 

The  skilful  Miinriiou  well  could  know 
Tliey  wutelied  the  motions'  of  some  foe 
Who  traversed  on  the  plain  below. 


XIX. 

Even  so  it  was.     From  Flodden  ridge 

The  Scots  beheld  the  English  host 

Leave  r>armore-wood,  their  evening  post, 

And  heedful  watched  them  as  they  crossed 
The  Till  by  Twisel  Bridge. 

High  sight  it  is  and  haughty,  while 

They  dive  into  the  deep  defile; 

Beneath  the  caverned  cliff  they  fall, 

Beneath  the  castle's  airy  wall. 
By  rock,  by  oak,  by  hawthorn-tree, 

Troop  after  troop  are  disappearing ; 

Troop  after  troop  their  banners  rearing 
Upon  the  eastern  bank  you  see ; 
Still  pouring  down  the  rocky  den 

Where  Hows  the  sullen  Till, 
And  rising  from  the  ilim-wood  glen, 
Standards  on  standards,  men  on  men, 

In  slow  succession  still, 
And  sweeping  o'er  the  Gothic  arch, 
And  pressing  on,  in  ceaseless  march. 

To  gain  the  opposing  hill. 
That  morn,  to  many  a  trumpet  clang, 
Twisel  1  thy  rock's  deep  echo  rang  ; 
And  many  a  chief  of  birth  and  rank, 


290  M  ARM  I  ON. 

Saint  Helen  !  at  thy  fountain  drank. 
Thy  hawthorn  glade,  which  now  we  see 
In  spring-tide  bloom  so  lavishly, 
Had  then  from  many  an  axe  its  doom, 
To  give  the  marching  columns  room. 


XX. 

And  why  stands  Scotland  idly  now, 
Dark  Floddeu  !  on  tliy  airy  brow, 
Since  England  gains  the  pass  the  while. 
And  struggles  through  the  deep  defile  ? 
What  checks  the  fiery  soid  of  James  ? 
Why  sits  that  champion  of  the-  dames 

Inactive  on  his  steed. 
And  sees,  between  him  and  his  land. 
Between  him  and  Tweed's  southern  strand. 

His  host  Lord  Surrey  lead  ? 
What  vails  the  vain  knight-errant's  brand  ?  - 
O  Douglas,  for  thy  leading  wand  ! 

Fierce  Eaudolph,  for  thy  speed  ! 
Oh  !  for  one  hour  of  Wallace  wio-ht. 
Or  well-skilled  Bruce,  to  rule  the  fight 
And  cry,  '  Saint  Andrew  and  our  right ! ' 
Another  sight  had  seen  that  morn, 
From  Fate's  chirk  book  a  leaf  been  torn. 
And  Flodden  liad  been  Bannockbourne  !  — 
The  precious  hour  has  passed  in  vain, 
And  England's  host  has  gained  the  plain. 


THE  BATTLE.  291 

Whccliiiii;  tluiir  iiiarHi  and  cirflins:  still 
Around  the  base  of  Eloddcu  hill. 


XXI. 

Ere  yet  the  bauds  met  Marniion's  eye, 
Fitz-Eustacc  shouted  loud  and  hit^h, 
'  Hark  !  hark  !  my  lord,  an  English  drum  ! 
And  see  ascending  squadrons  come 

Between  Tweed's  river  and  the  hill, 
Foot,  horse,  and  cannon  !     Hap  what  hap. 
My  basnet  to  a  prentice  cap, 

Lord  Surrey  's  o'er  the  Till  !  — 
Yet  more  !    yet  more  I  —  how  fair  arrayed 
They  file  from  out  the  hawthorn  shade, 

And  sweep  so  gallant  by  ! 
With  all  their  banners  bravely  spread, 

And  all  their  armor  flashing  high, 
Saint  George  might  waken  from  the  dead, 

To  see  fair  England's  standards  fly.'  — 
'  Stint  in  thy  prate,'  quoth  Blount,  '  thou  'dst  best, 
And  listen  to  our  lord's  behest.'  — • 
With  kindling  brow  Lord  Marmion  said, 
'  This  instant  be  our  band  arrayed ; 
The  river  must  be  quickly  crossed, 
That  we  may  join  Lord  Surrey's  host. 
If  fio-ht  Kinsr  James,  —  as  well  I  trust 
That  fight  he  will,  and  fight  he  must,  — 
The  Lady  Clare  behind  our  lines 
Shall  tarry  while  the  battle  joins.' 


292  MARMION. 


XXII. 


Himself  he  swift  on  horseback  threw, 
Scarce  to  the  abbot  bade  adieu, 
Far  less  would  listen  to  his  prayer 
To  leave  behind  the  helpless  Clare. 
Down  to  the  Tweed  his  band  he  drew, 
And  muttered  as  the  flood  they  view, 
'The  pheasant  in  the  falcon's  claw, 
He  scarce  will  yield  to  please  a  daw ; 
Lord  Angus  may  the  abbot  awe. 
So  Clare  shall  bide  with  me.' 
Then  on  that  dangerous  ford  and  deep 
Where  to  the  Tweed  Leafs  eddies  creep 

He  ventured  desperately : 
And  not  a  moment  will  he  bide 
Till  squire  or  groom  before  him  ride ; 
Headmost  of  all  he  stems  the  tide. 

And  stems  it  gallantly. 
Eustace  held  Clare  upon  her  horse, 

Old  Hubert  led  her  rein, 
Stoutly  they  braved  the  current's  course, 
And,  though  far  downward  driven  perforce, 

The  southern  bank  they  gain. 
Behind  them  straggling  came  to  shore. 

As  best  they  might,  the  train  : 
Each  o'(!r  his  head  his  yew-bow  bore, 

A  caution  not  in  vain  ; 
Deep  need  that  day  that  every  string. 
By  wet  unharmed,  should  sharply  ring. 


THE  BATTLE.  293 

A  nioineiit  (licii  Lord  Mariiiiou  stayed, 
And  breathed  liis  steed,  liis  men  arrayed, 

Then  lorward  moved  his  band, 
Until,  Lord  Snrri'v's  rear-guard  won, 
He  halted  bv  a  cross  of  stone. 
That  on  a  hillock  standing-  lone 

Did  all  tlie  lield  command. 


XXIII. 

Hence  might  they  see  the  full  array 

Of  either  host  for  deadly  fray  ; 

Their  marshalled  lines  stretched  east  and  west, 

And  fronted  north  and  south, 
And  distant  salutation  passed 

Prom  the  loud  cannon  mouth  ; 
Not  in  the  close  successive  rtittle 
That  bi'eathes  the  voice  of  modern  battle, 

But  slow  and  far  between. 
The  hillock  gained.  Lord  Marmion  stayed  : 
'  Here,  by  this  cross,'  he  gently  said, 

'  You  well  may  view  the  scene. 
Here  shalt  thou  tarry,  lovely  Clare  : 
Oh  !  think  of  Marmion  in  thy  prayer  !  — 
Thou  wilt  not?  —  well,  no  less  my  care 
Shall,  watchful,  for  thy  weal  prepare.  — 
You,  Blount  and  Eustace,  are  her  guard, 

With  ten  picked  archers  of  my  train ; 
With  England  if  the  day  go  hard, 

To  Berwick  speed  amain.  — 


294  MARMION. 

But  if  we  conquer,  cruel  maid, 
My  spoils  shall  at  your  feet  be  laid. 

When  here  we  meet  again.' 
He  waited  not  for  answer  there. 
And  would  not  mark  the  maid's  despair. 

Nor  heed  tlie  discontented  look 
Prom  either  squire,  but  spurred  amain. 
And,  dashing  through  the  battle-plain, 

His  way  to  Surrey  took. 


XXIV. 


'  The  good  Lord  Marraion,  by  my  life ! 

Welcome  to  danger's  hour  !  — 
Short  greeting  serves  in  time  of  strife.  — 

Thus  have  I  ranged  my  power: 
Myself  will  rule  this  central  host, 
Stout  Stanley  fronts  their  right. 
My  sons  command  the  vaward  post, 
With  Brian  Tunstall,  stainless  knight ; 
Lord  Dacre,  with  his  horsemen  light, 
Shall  be  in  rearward  of  the  fight. 
And  succor  those  that  need  it  most. 
Now,  gallant  Marmion,  well  I  know, 
Woidci  gladly  to  the  vanguard  go ; 
Edmund,  the  Admiral,  Tunstall  there. 
With  thee  their  charge  will  blithely  share ; 
There  fight  thine  own  retainers  too 
Beneath  De  Burg,  thy  steward  true.' 
'  Thanks,  noble  Surrey  ! '  Marmion  said. 


THE  BATTLE.  295 

Nor  fuvtliev  greeting  tlieve  lie  paid, 
But,  parting"  like  a  tliunderbolt. 
First  in  the  vanguard  made  a  halt, 

Where  sufh  a  sliout  there  rose 
Of  '  Marniiuu  !  Marniion  !  '  that  tlie  cry, 
Up  Flodden  mountain  shrilling  high, 

Startled  the  Scottish  foes. 


XXV. 

Blount  and  Fitz-Eustacc  rested  still 
With  Lady  Clare  upon  the  hill, 
On  which  —  for  far  the  day  was  spent  — 
The  Avestern  sunbeams  now  were  bent ; 
The  cry  they  heard,  its  meaning  knew. 
Could  plain  their  distant  comrades  view 
Sadly  to  Blount  did  Eustace  say, 
'  Unworthy  office  here  to  stav  ! 
No  hope  of  gilded  spurs  to-day.  — 
But  see  !  look  up  —  on  Flodden  bent 
The  Scottish  foe  has  fired  his  tent.' 

And  sudden,  as  he  spoke. 
From  the  sharp  ridges  of  the  hill, 
All  downward  to  tlie  banks  of  Till, 

Was  wreathed  in  sable  smoke. 
Voluraed  and  vast,  and  rolling  far, 
The  cloud  enveloped  Scotland's  war 

As  down  the  hill  they  broke ; 
Nor  martial  shout,  nor  minsti'cl  tone, 


296  MARMION. 

Announced  their  march  ;  their  tread  alone, 
At  times  one  warning  trumpet  blown, 

At  times  a  stifled  hum. 
Told  England,  from  his  mountain-throne 

Kins:  James  did  rushing  come. 
Scarce  could  they  hear  or  see  their  foes 
Until  at  weapon -point  they  close.  — 
They  close  in  clouds  of  smoke  and  dust, 
With  sword-sway  and  Avith  lance's  thrust ; 

And  such  a  yell  Avas  there, 
Of  sudden  and  portentous  birth, 
As  if  men  fought  upon  the  earth. 

And  fiends  in  upper  air ; 
Oh  !  life  and  death  were  in  the  shout, 
Kecoil  and  rally,  charge  and  rout, 

And  triumph  and  despair. 
Long  looked  the  anxious  squires  ;  their  eye 
Coidd  in  the  darkness  nought  descry. 


XXVI. 

At  length  the  freshening  western  blast 
Aside  the  shroud  of  battle  cast ; 
And  first  the  ridge  of  mingled  spears 
Above  the  brightening  cloud  appears, 
And  in  the  smoke  the  pennons  flew. 
As  in  the  storm  the  Avhite  seamcAv. 
Then  marked  they,  dashing  broad  and  far, 
The  broken  billows  of  the  war. 


THE  BATTLE.  297 

And  plumed  crests  of  clilcftaiiis  brave 
Floidiiig'  like  foam  u})Oii  the  wave  ; 

l?ut  nought  distinct  they  see  : 
Wide  raged  the  battle  on  the  plain  ; 
Spears  shook  and  falchions  flashed  amain  ; 
Fell  England's  arrow-flight  like  rain ; 
Crests  rose,  and  stooped,  and  rose  again, 

Wild  and  disorderly. 
Amid  the  scene  of  tumult,  high 
They  saw  Lord  Marmion's  falcon  fly ; 
And  stainless  Tunstall's  banner  veliite, 
And  Edmund  Howard's  lion  bright, 
Still  bear  them  bravely  in  the  fight, 

Although  against  them  come 
Of  gallant  Gordons  many  a  one. 
And  many  a  stubborn  Badenoch-man, 
And  many  a  rugged  Border  clan, 

With  Huntlv  and  with  Home. 


XXVII. 

Far  on  the  left,  unseen  the  while, 
Stanley  broke  Lennox  and  Argyle, 
Though  there  the  western  mountaineer 
Rushed  with  bare  bosom  on  the  spear, 
And  flung  the  feeble  targe  aside, 
And  with  both  hands  the  broadsword  plied. 
'T  was  vain.  — ■  But  Fortune,  on  the  right. 
With  fickle  smile  cheered  Scotland's  fight. 


298  HARM  I  ON. 

Then  fell  that  spotless  banner  white, 

The  Howard's  lion  fell ; 
Yet  still  Lord  Marrnion's  falcon  flew 
With  wavering-  flight,  Avhile  fiercer  grew 

Around  the  battle-yell. 
The  Border  slogan  rent  the  sky  ! 
A  Home  !  a  Gordon  !  was  the  cry  : 

Loud  were  the  clanging  blows  ; 
Advanced,  —  forced  back,  —  now  low,  now  high, 

The  pennon  sunk  and  rose  ; 
As  bends  the  bark's  mast  in  the  gale, 
When  rent  are  rigging,  shrouds,  and  sail, 

It  wavered  mid  the  foes. 
No  longer  Blount  the  view  could  bear : 
'  By  heaven  and  all  its  saints  !   I  swear 

I  will  not  see  it  lost ! 
Fitz-Eustace,  you  with  Lady  Clare 
May  bid  your  beads  and  patter  prayer,  — 

I  gallop  to  the  host.' 
And  to  the  fray  he  rode  amain, 
Followed  by  all  the  archer  train. 
The  fiery  youth,  with  desperate  charge. 
Made  for  a  space  an  opening  large,  — 

The  rescued  banner  rose,  — 
But  darkly  closed  the  war  around. 
Like  pine-tree  rooted  from  the  ground 

It  sank  among  the  foes. 
Then  Eustace  mounted  too,  —  yet  stayed. 
As  loath  to  leave  the  helpless  maid. 

When,  fast  as  shaft  can  fly. 


THE  BATTLE. 


299 


Bloodshot  his  oyos,  liis  nostrils  spiT.ad, 
The  loose  rein  diuiiilinf^-  from  his  head, 
Housing  and  saddle  bloody  red, 
Lord  Marmion's  steed  rushed  by  ; 


And  Eustace,  raaddening;  at  the  sight, 
A  look  and  sign  to  Clara  cast 
To  mark  he  would  return  in  haste, 

Then  plunged  into  the  fight. 


300  MARMION. 


XXVIII. 


Ask  me  not  what  the  maiden  feels, 
Left  in  that  dreadful  honr  alone  : 

Perchance  her  reason  stoops  or  reels  ; 
Perchance  a  courage,  not  her  own. 
Braces  her  mind  to  desperate  tone.  — 

The  scattered  van  of  England  wheels  ;  — 
She  only  said,  as  loud  in  air 
The  tumult  roared,  '  Is  Wilton  there  ?  '  — 
Tiiey  fly,  or,  maddened  by  despair, 
Pight  but  to  die,  —  '  Is  Wilton  there  ?  ' 

With  that,  straight  up  the  hill  there  rode 
Two  horsemen  drenched  with  core. 

And  in  their  arms,  a  helpless  load, 
A  wounded  knight  they  bore. 

His  hand  still  strained  the  broken  brand ; 

His  arms  were  smeared  with  blood  and  sand. 

Dragged  from  among  the  horses'  feet. 

With  dinted  shield  and  helmet  beat, 

The  falcon-crest  and  plumage  gone. 

Can  that  be  haughty  Marmion  !  .  .  . 

Young  Blount  his  armor  did  unlace, 

And,  gazing  on  his  ghastly  face. 
Said,  '  By  Saint  George,  he  's  gone  ! 

That  spear-wound  has  our  master  sped, 

And  see  the  deep  cut  on  his  head  1 
Good-night  to  Marmion.'  — 

'  Unnurtured  Blount !  thy  brawling  cease  : 

He  opes  his  eyes,'  said  Eustace ;  '  peace !  ' 


THE  BATTLE.  3U1 


XXIX. 

When,  doffed  his  casque,  lie  felt  free  air, 

Around  gan  Mariniou  wihlly  stare  : 

'  Where  's  Harry  Blount  ?  Fitz-Eustace  where  ? 

Linger  ye  here,  ye  hearts  of  liarc  ! 

Redeem  my  pennon,  —  charge  again  ! 

Cry,  "  Marmion  to  the  rescue  !  "  —  Vain  ! 

Last  of  my  race,  on  battle-plain 

That  shout  shall  ne'er  be  heard  again  !  — 

Yet  my  last  thought  is  England's  —  Hy, 
To  Dacrc  bear  my  signet-ring ; 
Tell  him  his  squadrons  up  to  bring. — 

Eitz-Eustace,  to  Lord  Surrey  hie  : 
Tunstall  lies  dead  upon  the  field, 
His  lifeblood  stains  the  spotless  shield ; 
Edmund  is  down  ;  my  life  is  reft ; 
The  Admiral  alone  is  left. 
Let  Stanley  charge  with  spur  of  fire,  — 
With  Chester  charge,  and  Lancashire, 
Eull  upon  Scotland's  central  host. 
Or  victory  and  England  's  lost.  — 
Must  I  bid  twice  ? —  heucc,  varlets  !  fly  !  — 
Leave  Marmion  here  alouc  —  to  die.' 
They  parted,  and  alone  he  lay ; 
Clare  drew  her  from  the  sight  away. 

Till  pain  wrung  forth  a  lowly  moan, 

And  half  he  murmured,  '  Is  there  none 
Of  all  my  halls  have  nurst. 

Page,  squire,  or  groom,  one  cup  to  bring 


303  MARMION. 

Of  blessed  water  from  the  spring, 
To  slake  my  dying  thirst ! ' 

XXX. 

0  Woman  !  in  our  hours  of  ease 

Uncertain,  co}^  and  hard  to  please. 

And  variable  as  the  shade 

By  the  light  quivering  aspeu  made  ; 

When  pain  and  anguish  wring  the  brow, 

A  ministering  angel  thou  !  — 

Scarce  were  the  piteous  accents  said, 

When  with  the  baron's  casque  the  maid 

•     To  the  nigh  streamlet  ran  : 

Forgot  were  hatred,  wrongs,  and  fears ; 

The  plaintive  voice  alone  she  hears, 

Sees  but  the  dying  man. 
She  stooped  her  by  the  runnel's  side. 

But  in  abliorrence  backward  drew; 
For,  oozing  from  the  mountain's  side 
Where  raged  the  war,  a  dark-red  tide 

Was  curdling  in  the  streamlet  blue. 
Where  shall  she  turn  ?  —  behold  her  mark 

A  little  fountain  cell. 
Where  water,  clear  as  diamond-spark. 

In  a  stone  basin  fell. 
Above,  some  half-worn  letters  say, 
IDrtnlv.  torarg.  pilflvim.  Urink.  nnB.  iirag. 
Sax.  tijc.  lunD.  soul.  of.  Sibyl.  (Srru. 

fflHi)0.  tuilt.  tl)is.  cross,  anti.  bjcll. 
She  filled  the  helm  and  back  she  hied. 


THE  BATTLE.  303 

And  with  surprise  and  joy  espied 

A  monk  supporting;  MaTuiion's  head  ; 

A  pious  man,  whom  duty  brought 

To  dubious  verge  of  battle  fought, 
To  shrieve  the  dying,  bless  the  dead. 

XXXI. 

Deep  drank  Lord  Marmion  of  the  wave, 
And,  as  she  stooped  his  brow  to  lave  — 
'  Is  it  the  hand  of  Clare,'  he  said, 
'  Or  injured  Constance,  bathes  my  head  ?  ' 

Then,  as  remembrance  I'ose,  — 
'  Speak  not  to  me  of  shrift  or  prayer  ! 

I  must  redress  her  woes. 
Short  space,  few  words,  are  mine  to  spare ; 
Forgive  and  listen,  gentle  Clare  ! '  — 

'  Alas  ! '  she  said,  '  the  while,  — 
Oh  !  think  of  your  immortal  weal ! 
In  vain  for  Constance  is  your  zeal ; 

She  —  died  at  Holy  Isle.'  — 
Lord  Marmion  started  from  the  ground 
As  light  as  if  he  felt  no  wound, 
Though  in  the  action  burst  the  tide 
In  torrents  from  his  wounded  side. 
'  Then  it  was  truth,'  he  said  — '  I  knew 
That  the  dark  presage  must  be  true.  — 
I  would  the  Fiend,  to  whom  belongs 
The  vengeance  due  to  all  her  wrongs. 

Would  spare  me  but  a  day ! 


a04  MARMION. 

Por  wasting  fire,  and  dying"  groan, 
And  priests  slain  on  tlie  altar  stone, 

Might  bribe  hira  for  delay. 
It  may  not  be  !  —  this  dizzy  trance  — 
Curse  on  yon  base  marauder's  lance, 
And  doubly  cursed  my  failing  brand  ! 
A  sinful  heart  makes  feeble  hand.' 
Then  fainting  down  on  earth  he  sunk, 
Supported  by  the  trembling  monk. 

XXXII. 

With  fruitless  labor  Clara  bound 

And  strove  to  stanch  the  gushing  wound ; 

The  monk  with  unavailing  cares 

Exhausted  all  the  Church's  prayers. 

Ever,  he  said,  that,  close  and  near, 

A  lady's  voice  was  in  his  ear, 

And  that  the  priest  he  could  not  hear ; 

For  that  she  ever  sung, 
'  In  the  lost  battle,  borne  down  by  the  flying, 
Where  mingles  war's  rattle  with  groans  of  the  dying  ! ' 

So  the  notes  rung.  — 
'  Avoid  thee,  Piend  !  —  with  cruel  hand 
Shake  not  the  dying  sinner's  sand  !  — 
Oh !  look,  my  son,  upon  yon  sign 
Of  the  Redeemer's  grace  divine  ; 

Oh  !  think  on  faith  and  bliss  !  — 
By  many  a  death-bed  I  have  been, 
And  many  a  sinner's  parting  seen, 


306  MARMION. 

But  never  auglit  like  this.'  — 
The  war,  that  for  a  space  did  fail, 
Now  trebly  thundering  swelled  the  gale. 

And  '  Stanley  !  '  was  the  cry.  — 
A  light  on  Marmion's  visage  spread, 

And  tired  his  glazing  eye  ; 
With  dying  hand  above  his  head 
He  shook  the  fragment  of  his  blade. 

And  shouted  '  Victory  !  — 
Charge,  Chester,  charge  !     On,  Stanley,  on  ! ' 
'       Were  the  last  words  of  Marraion. 

XXXIII. 

By  this,  though  deep  the  evening  fell, 
Still  rose  the  battle's  deadly  swell. 
For  still  the  Scots  around  their  king, 
Unbroken,  fought  in  desperate  ring. 
Where 's  now  their  victor  vaward  wing. 

Where  Huntly,  and  where  Home  ?  — 
Oh  !  for  a  blast  of  that  dread  horn. 
On  Fontarabian  echoes  borne, 

That  to  King  Charles  did  come. 
When  Eowland  brave,  and  Olivier, 
And  every  paladin  and  peer. 

On  Roncesvalles  died  ! 
Such  blasts  might  warn  them,  not  in  vain, 
To  quit  the  plundijr  of  the  slain 
And  turn  the  doubtful  day  again. 

While  yet  on  Flodden  side 
Afar  the  Eoyal  Standard  flies, 


THE   BATTLE.  307 

And  roniid  it  toils  .and  hlccds  and  dies 

Our  Caledonian  pride  ! 
In  vain  the  wish  —  for  far  away, 
While  spoil  and  havoc  mark  their  way, 
Near  Sibyl's  Cross  the  plunderers  stray.  — 
•  0  lady,'  cried  the  monk,  '  away  ! ' 

And  placed  her  on  her  steed. 
And  led  her  to  the  chapel  fair 

Of  Tilraouth  upon  Tweed. 
There  all  the  night  they  spent  in  prayer. 
And  at  the  dawn  of  morning  there 
She  met  her  kinsman,  Lord  Fitz-Clare. 

XXXIV. 

But  as  they  left  the  darkening  heath 
More  desperate  grew  the  strife  of  death. 
The  English  shafts  in  volleys  hailed. 
In  headlong  charge  their  horse  assailed  ; 
Front,  flank,  and  rear,  the  squadrons  sweep 
To  break  the  Scottish  circle  deep 

That  fought  around  their  king. 
But  yet,  though  thick  the  shafts  as  snow. 
Though  charging  knights  like  whirlwinds  go. 
Though  billmen  ply  the  ghastly  blow, 

Unbroken  was  the  ring  ; 
The  stubborn  spearmen  still  made  good 
Their  dark  impenetrable  Avood, 
Each  stepping  where  his  comrade  stood 

The  instant  that  he  fell. 


308  MARMION. 

No  thought  was  there  of  dastard  flight ; 
Linked  in  the  serried  phalanx  tight, 
Groom  fought  like  noble,  squire  like  knight. 

As  fearlessly  and  well, 
Till  utter  darkness  closed  her  wina: 
O'er  their  thin  host  and  wounded  king. 
Then  skilful  Surrey's  sage  commands 
Led  back  from  strife  his  shattered  bands ; 

And  from  the  charge  they  drew, 
As  mountain- waves  from  wasted  lands 

Sweep  back  to  ocean  blue. 
Then  did  their  loss  his  foemen  know ; 
Their  king,  their  lords,  their  mightiest  low. 
They  melted  from  the  field,  as  snow, 
When  streams  are  swoln  and  south  winds  blow. 

Dissolves  in  silent  dew. 
Tweed's  echoes  heard  the  ceaseless  plash. 

While  many  a  broken  band 
Disordered  through  her  currents  dash. 

To  gain  the  Scottish  land  ; 
To  town  and  tower,  to  down  and  dale, 
To  tell  red  Plodden's  dismal  tale. 
And  raise  the  universal  wail. 
Tradition,  legend,  tune,  and  song 
Shall  many  an  age  that  Avail  prolong ; 
Still  from  the  sire  the  son  shall  hear 
Of  the  stern  strife  and  carnage  drear 

Of  Flodden's  fatal  field. 
Where  shivered  was  fair  Scotland's  spear 
And  broken  was  her  shield ! 


THE  BATTLE.  309 

XXXV. 

Day  dawns  upon  the  mountain's  side,  — 
There,  Scotland  !  lay  thy  bravest  pride, 
Chiefs,  knights,  and  nohles,  many  a  one ; 
Tlie  sad  survivors  all  are  gone.  — 
View  not  that  corpse  nustrustfuliy, 
Defaced  and  mangled  though  it  be  ; 
Nor  to  yon  Border  castle  high 
Look  northward  with  upbraiding  eye  ; 

Nor  cherish  hope  in  vain 
That,  journeying  far  on  foreign  strand. 
The  Koyal  Pilgrim  to  his  laud 

May  yet  return  again. 
He  saw  the  wreck  his  rashness  wrought ; 
Reckless  of  life,  he  desperate  fought, 

And  fell  on  Flodden  plain  : 
And  well  in  death  his  trusty  brand, 
Firm  clenched  Avithin  his  manly  hand, 

Beseemed  the  monarcli  slain. 
But  oh  !  how  changed  since  yon  blithe  night !  — 
Gladly  I  turn  me  from  the  sight 

Unto  my  tale  again. 

XXXVI. 

Short  is  my  tale  :  —  Fitz-Eustace'  care 
A  pierced  and  mangled  body  bare 
To  moated  Lichfield's  lofty  pile  ; 
And  there,  beneath  the  southern  aisle, 
A  tomb  with  Gothic  sculpture  fair 


310  MARMION. 

Did  long  Lord  Marmioii's  image  bear.  — 
Now  vainly  ibr  its  site  yon  look  ; 
'T  was  levelled  when  fanatic  Brook 
The  fair  cathedral  stormed  and  took, 
But,  thanks  to  Heaven  and  good  Saint  Chad, 
A  guerdon  meet  the  spoiler  had  !  — 
There  erst  was  martial  Marmion  found, 
His  feet  upon  a  couchant  hound, 

His  hands  to  heaven  upraised  ; 
And  all  around,  on  scutcheon  rich, 
And  tablet  carved,  and  fretted  niche, 

His  arms  and  feats  were  blazed. 
And  yet,  though  all  was  carved  so  fair, 
And  priest  for  Marmion  breathed  the  prayer, 
The  last  Lord  Marmion  lay  not  there. 
Prom  Ettrick  woods  a  peasant  swain 
Followed  his  lord  to  Flodden  plain,  — 
One  of  those  flowers  whom  plaintive  lay 
In  Scotland  mourns  as  '  wede  away  :  ' 
Sore  wounded,  Sibyl's  Cross  he  spied. 
And  dragged  him  to  its  foot,  and  died 
Close  by  the  noble  Marmion's  side. 
The  spoilers  stripped  and  gashed  the  slain, 
And  thus  their  corpses  were  mista'en ; 
And  thus  in  the  proud  baron's  tomb 
The  lowly  woodsman  took  the  room. 

XXXVII. 

Less  easy  task  it  were  to  show 

Lord  Marmion's  nameless  grave  and  low. 


THE  BATTLE. 


ail 


They  clu^  his  grave  e'en  where  he  lay, 

But  every  mark  is  g-one  : 
Time's  Avasting  hand  has  done  away 
The  simple  Cross  of  Sibyl  Grey, 

And  broke  her  font  of  stone  ; 


313  MARMION. 

But  yet  from  out  the  little  hill 
Oozes  the  slender  springlet  still. 

Oft  halts  the  stranger  there, 
For  thence  may  best  his  curious  eye 
The  memorable  field  descry  ; 

And  shepherd  boys  repair 
To  seek  the  water-flag-  and  rush, 
And  rest  them  by  the  hazel  bush, 

And  plait  their  garlands  fair, 
Nor  dream  they  sit  upon  the  grave 
That  holds  the  bones  of  Marmion  brave.  — 
When  thou  shalt  find  the  little  hill, 
"With  thy  heart  commune  and  be  still. 
If  ever  in  temptation  strong 
Thou  left'st  the  right  path  for  the  wrong, 
If  every  devious  step  thus  trod 
Still  led  thee  further  from  the  road, 
Dread  thou  to  speak  presmnptuous  doom 
On  noble  Marmion's  lowly  tomb  ; 
But  say,  '  He  died  a  gallant  knight. 
With  sword  in  hand,  for  England's  right.' 


XXXVIII. 

I  do  not  rhyme  to  that  dull  elf 

Who  cannot  image  to  himself 

That  all  through  Flodden's  dismal  night 

Wilton  was  foremost  in  the  fight, 

That  when  brave  Surrey's  steed  was  slain 

'T  was  Wilton  mounted  him  again  ; 


THE  BATTLE.  313 

'T  was  Wilton's  brand  that  deepest  hewed 

Amid  the  spearmen's  stubborn  wood  : 

Unnamed  by  Holinshcd  or  Hall, 

Ho  was  the  livinj;'  soul  of  all ; 

That,  after  fight,  his  faith  made  plain, 

He  won  his  rank  and  lands  again, 

And  charged  his  old  paternal  shield 

With  bearings  won  on  Flodden  Field. 

Nor  sing  I  to  that  simple  maid 

To  whom  it  must  in  terms  be  said 

That  king  and  kinsmen  did  agree 

To  bless  fair  Clara's  constaney ; 

Who  cannot,  unless  I  relate, 

Paint  to  her  mind  the  bridal's  state,  — 

Tliat  Wolsey's  voice  the  blessing  spoke. 

More,  Sands,  and  Denny,  passed  the  joke ; 

That  bluff  King  Hal  the  curtain  drew, 

And  Katherine's  hand  the  stocking  threw; 

And  afterwards,  for  many  a  day. 

That  it  was  held  enough  to  say. 

In  blessing  to  a  wedded  pair, 

'  Love  they  like  Wilton  and  like  Clare  ! ' 


L'ENVOY. 

TO   THE   READER. 

Why  tlien  a  final  note  prolong, 

Or  lengthen  out  a  closing  song, 

Unless  to  bid  the  gentles  speed, 

Who  long  have  listetl  to  ray  rede  ? 

To  statesmen  grave,  if  such  may  deign 

To  read  the  minstrel's  idle  strain, 

Sound  liead,  clean  hand,  and  piercing  wit, 

And  patriotic  heart  —  as  Pitt  ! 

A  garland  for  the  hero's  crest, 

And  twined  by  her  he  loves  the  best ! 

To  every  lovely  lady  bright. 

What  can  T  wish  but  faithful  knight  ? 

To  every  faithful  lover  too, 

Wliat  can  I  wish  but  ladv  true  ? 

And  knowledge  to  the  studious  sage. 

And  pillow  soft  to  head  of  age ! 

To  thee,  dear  school-boy,  whom  my  lay 

Has  cheated  of  thy  hour  of  play, 

Light  task  and  merry  holiday  ! 

To  all,  to  each,  a  fair  good-night, 

And  pleasing  dreams,  and  slumbers  light ! 


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